


Yes, Sir

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alice Cooper (Archie Comics) is the Worst, Anxiety, BDSM, Bad Parent Alice Cooper (Archie Comics), Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom Jughead Jones, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Personal Assistant Betty Cooper, Personal Growth, Secretary au, Self-Harm, Shibari, Slow Burn, Spanking, Strangers to Lovers, Sub Betty Cooper, Writer Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-24 12:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Betty regains her agency by becoming the best personal assistant she can be for the insightful, broody, and handsome writer Jughead Jones. Getting out of her smothering, awful household is one thing, but getting into his brain (and pants - and heart, really) is another kind of freedom - one that feels like endless, beautiful fields of green.Loosely inspired by the film Secretary





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, I LOVE the film "Secretary," but as with all of my alternate universes based on other works, I've really changed things to suit the characters and THIS universe. Things to keep in mind: it's a slow burn with lots of flirting, tension, and tenderness. Everything is consensual and both of them are fairly educated on the elements BDSM they engage in. Betty comes from a smothering version of the Cooper family which makes her want to hurt herself in a psychological flex. Really, you're probably here for Bughead developments. Questions? Comment here or message me on tumblr @lovedinapastlife

The breeze kicks up under Betty's skirt, her fingers curling numbly over the handle of her small suitcase. She can’t feel the burn of the scars on her thighs through these thick tights. They know she hates waist-highs, but this is the first non-hospital-issued outfit they let her have in a month, so Betty’s going to endure them until she can get home and rip them off her body where she’ll have the freedom to stare at the red, pink, and white stitching on her legs. Bare, alone, she'll sit in front of her nice big mirror in her pale pastel room and wonder why she ever let herself get caught in the first place.

_It was an accident_.

There was limited time. Her mom came in and startled her and the surprise made her cut too deep.

Otherwise, she was totally in control. She’s been doing that sort of thing since the 7th grade. Everything was fine up until her little slip, even Dr. Weatherbee’s inclined to think so.

Her family will probably treat her like a freak, like a baby that needs to be doped up so she doesn’t feel...stressed. Or inadequate. Or whatever it is her therapist insists is the thing that drives her pain.

The sessions with Dr. Weatherbee are...helpful. They mostly talk about her family. Alice even tried to sit it on one of her sessions so she could _understand _better and almost had a conniption fit when Dr. Weatherbee suggested perhaps her and Alice would benefit from independent therapies.

Maybe Betty’s parents thought that sending her away would just...make the whole thing go away - like she’s something they can send to be fixed. A porcelain doll to glue back together so precisely that no one sees the cracks.

She doesn’t feel like a different person. She just feels like she was in a time out.

Alice looks predictably tightly wound as she slams the car door shut. She gestures for Betty to hurry with her case as if it hasn’t been exactly one millisecond that the trunk’s been open.

“I’ve got it,” Betty reassures her, careful not to let the suitcase touch any part of the car paint. Betty’ll be the one retouching it if it does. Her mother always complains that she still _knows _the mark is there.

Maybe she won’t say that anymore. That’d be nice.

A thud sounds muffled and far away. Betty doesn’t register she’s closed the trunk until Alice’s arms are wrapped tightly around her. Something wet leaks onto her shoulders. Her mother is _crying_.

Alice never cries.

“It’s all right, Mom.”

This feels like an alternate reality, patting her mother on the back as she weeps into her daughter’s hair. That seems like the comforting thing to do. It doesn’t..._matter_, though. Her mom will pull herself together shortly, like she always does, and go back to pretending everything’s fine - hovering just in _case _someone shows any signs that it’s otherwise.

Betty heard Alice questioning Dr. Weatherbee’s discharge approval a few days ago, but it didn’t hurt like she expected it to. Her mother probably wasn’t ready to face having her home again.

Maybe the idea of a child who’s not _perfect_ upsets her. The situation didn’t seem that bad to Betty.

Prozac helps with the nonchalance thing. Betty’d accepted the full dose knowing the environment she’d face at home with her mother’s horribly misguided attempts to _reintegrate her _into society.

There’s a birthday party for her niece and nephew the same day she gets home. They’re too young to really enjoy opening presents so Polly pretends to be excited _for _them while they stick the ribbon and paper trimmings in their drooling mouths. It’s too many people. Polly and her screaming twins, Jason and Cheryl with their smug, stupid, condescending faces and barely-restrained insults, and vaguely polite family friends. Betty’s father Hal awkwardly avoids any _real _interaction. He keeps piling food on people’s plates and drinking scotch until Alice huffs that _all that fat isn’t good for Betty’s disposition._

“Stop treating me like a child,” she whispers heatedly, her fingers coated in the messy slop of frosting from her dad’s uneven slicing.

Alice the Matriarch's eyes blaze. “Then don’t act like one - sulking because you can’t have cake. Now give that to the twins and come help me with the trash.”

Like grown-ups can’t have cake, can’t play party games.

Part of her just wants to fall into the pool her mother insisted on as part of the _real estate value_ of the house. Let water flood her ears so she can’t hear anyone, be hidden from plain sight.

Everyone’s exhausting.

Even Betty is, probably, for not pretending _everything is great_.

So she sits and smiles politely and tries to twitch her nails into her palms whenever someone awkwardly broaches the subject, “So...how are you _feeling_?”

_Trapped._

“Is it good to be home?”

_No_. She’d almost gotten used to the hospital’s schedule. The order of her pills. The praise from the staff for finishing her meals. The general friendliness.

Escaping upstairs, Betty practically tears the tights off her body, letting her skin breathe for the first time in hours. Heart pounding in her ears, she does the only thing she can think of to calm herself down and scratches that itch.

_Fuck. Wait._

There’s only a pinprick of blood before she catches herself. The white clump of dead skin is dotted red under her fingernails.

_You got it. Not too deep. Not anywhere they will see._

Betty pushes her face into the frilly pastel pink pillow she’s had since she was six and screams.

If they find out she’s still harming, they’ll send her back. If she talks about why she needs it, they’ll treat her like a ghost instead of a porcelain doll. Her mom might cry again. Betty doesn’t think she’s emotionally prepared to handle _that_.

This is all temporary, she reminds herself.

Her parents removed the lock on her bedroom door years ago, but it still makes her feel like she’s in some drug-induced nightmare in the hospital. No privacy. Betty’s too disheartened to check if they did the same thing to her bathroom.

Being home is somehow more tense now than when she left it. Like the nerve she struck hit the whole family harder instead of just a deeper part of her own veins. Her mother is _worse_ now that she has a new "problem" to latch onto. And her father is just...spiraling, apparently, if the muffled noise of ice and the projector going is any indication.

Tomorrow she’ll make a plan. A list.

She tucks her bare legs under the comforter, holds her soft stuffed cat Caramel close, and tries to think of a better tomorrow.

~~~

“I can walk around town by myself. It’s not even that big.”

“With those Serpents dealing drugs at the cinema? Oh, no. I’ll stay with you until you’re done.”

With a big sigh, Betty tries to massage her neck to prevent an oncoming headache. “It’s fine. I’m not even going to the movieplex - not unless they’re hiring - and don’t you have to _work _today?

“It’s no trouble. I’ll do my reports in the car. I even brought my extra battery,” Alice insists brightly, hoisting up a bag of organized cords and papers.

“Oh.”

It’s horrible.

Betty fills out applications under her mother’s hawklike stare, _feeling _the exhaust of the car running burning up her legs even when she’s across the street.

It's not even so much that her mother wants to make sure she's "safe," but that she doesn't trust her not to fuck everything up.

“Please, go home,” she begs.

“I am here for support! I love you.”

“I love you too, but I’m fine. I’ll call you. This is embarrassing. _Please_.”

Alice kills the ignition.

Eventually, the only compromise they can come to is Alice working in the library while Betty picks up some books to fill up her foreseeably open schedule with - something other than co-babysitting with her parents (because she’s too high-risk to even leave on her own with small children).

It’s fine.

Even if her mom slips a pile of self-help books on top of her mysteries.

_Fine._

Her knuckles tremble with the urge to dig her nails into her palms. But not today. Today she has a plan. Smoothing her hair back into a ponytail, Betty boots up a computer and searches for local job postings.

The cam girl offerings actually seem vaguely interesting, but there’s no way she’d be able to find a place to do that while she’s living at her parents’ house.

Something respectable. Maybe with health insurance?

Sighing, Betty’s fingers fly over her keyboard, cranking out cover letters for menial government jobs, writing marketing copy, et cetera. She knows her latest stint in the hospital will prevent her from working with kids, which is fine. Camps and daycares are probably a nightmare if her time with the twins is any indication.

A new alert pops up.

_WANTED: TYPIST/PERSONAL ASSISTANT_

_I’m working on a novel based on a cold case from 1934 and need someone to transfer my thoughts to a physical and digital format for my editor. Preferred: experience in dictation, hardy disposition (the details of the case are pretty gory), takes direction well, organized, and professional. If you’re not going to take this work seriously and try to chat with your friends every five minutes when there’s a lull in active typing, you need not apply. Other duties may arise as needed (organizing files, grabbing food, etc) and the hours can be irregular based on inspiration so flexibility is a must._

It’s not like she has a busy schedule ahead of her. She does like mysteries.

Betty writes a short cover letter with attached typing scores including her words per minute and a few short samples of articles she’s helped with at the Register to show she can also manage page layouts and interview recordings. That seems like the kind of thing he'd be looking for. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes since her application submission before she receives an alert in her email.

_Ms. Cooper–_

_Thank you for your interest in the position. I’d like to get started as soon as possible. Would you be available for an interview today at 1pm?_

She sits up straighter in her chair, quickly scanning the details in the latter half of his email regarding general stipends per day and the address of the coffee shop/diner named “Pop’s” he’d like to meet her. His signature appears as J. Jones. Not an author she recognizes, and too common of a last name for her to scan through the backlog of things she’s read to figure out where to place him.

_Mr. Jones–_

_It would be my pleasure. If you’re eager to start right away, I can bring my laptop or notepads and paper. Would it be helpful to have or bring a recorder in this situation?_

_Ms. Cooper–_

_Very thoughtful of you. I’ll have materials for you today, should the interview go well. I look forward to meeting you._

Satisfied, Betty realizes he’s probably at Pop’s right now, writing and drinking coffee until she arrives. Gathering what’s left of her energy, Betty approaches her mother and smiles with as much sweetness as she can muster.

“Mom? One of the jobs I applied to wants to meet me at Pop’s for a preliminary interview. Do you mind if I go early so I can make a good impression?”

Alice visibly brightens, especially since Betty asked her permission. “Already? Wow! That’s great, honey. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Her body tilts like half of her bones are ready to curtsey. “So...can I? Walk over early? I think the fresh air would do me some good. Then I can either call you from Pop’s or walk back.”

There’s nothing scandalous from the library to the diner - not even the movie theater.

Carefully drawing the glasses down the bridge of her nose, Alice thinks. “I can walk with you. Sit in a back booth..."

"Mom," she pleads. "I don't want to be passed over because they think I can't manage myself. I mean, would you hire a temp who showed up with their parent to an interview?"

Alice's mouth twists in dissatisfaction. "Pop does have my number in case anything goes wrong. Just don’t get a milkshake, Betty. All that sugar might interfere with your medication.”

It wouldn’t.

Betty’s pulse pounds in her palms, her cheeks feeling like rubber from smiling so forcefully.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Just to spite her mother’s warning, Betty marches across the library parking lot to take the long way around through the park. Maybe this way she can clear her head. Become her “normal” pleasant self again.

Things aren’t budding quite yet, patches of grass still matted and caked with snow. Her feet sink into the hard ground just enough to get mud on her shoes. She thinks of her prize-winning poem from her senior year in high school.

_My flowers had just about_

_given up in despair,_

_so with the exception of a few_

_potted pIants from the florist,_

_ _

_we're flowerIess_

_for the first spring in years._

Pausing, she stares at her boots, wiggling them until she can see the faint lines of their imprint making way in the hard earth.

“Finally,” she breathes, sticking her hands in her pockets and moving forward.

At least she's dressed halfway smart, and if Mr. Jones is willing to meet at Pop’s for an informal interview, she doubts he cares much about the fact that her skirt is corduroy today instead of linen with a sleek silk lining.

Most of her life has been skirts and sweaters. They have to cover up those little lines on her thighs. But they’re comforting, too, in some ways. A soft shell that lets her scars breathe and keeps her body warm.

By the time she’s lapped the park, her lungs and veins feel purged enough with fresh air that she can smile again when she hears the familiar crackle of the jukebox as she enters Pop’s. It would probably help to know what Mr. Jones looks like, she thinks, quickly surveying the inside. Her gaze barely flickers over the families, lingering a little on the couples. Maybe he’s interviewing other people and she’s infringing. Or maybe he’s not even here. Maybe Betty’s ex has a new girlfriend, which is fine (good, really), but she’d rather not run into him here when she’s about to interview for a job.

“You looking for somebody, sweetheart?” Pop asks, and she can tell by his gentle tone that he has a suspicion where she’s been for the past thirty days. Most people probably do.

“A writer. J. Jones–” She practically cuts herself off as an attractive man with long, dark hair and a crown-ridged beanie looks up from his laptop with a certain rigid attention. His long limbs are so sharply wedged in that the booth looks smaller, like it'll barely fit one person a seat instead of nearly three. “Mr. Jones?” she tries, voice peaking into pleasantness. “I’m Betty Cooper.”

“You’re...early.” He glances at her outstretched hand, seemingly disoriented, before gesturing for her to sit down.

Her heart sinks. After sending a small smile to Pop, she slides into the other side of the booth. She clasps her hands together to quell the urge to chafe her thighs until she can feel blood smear between them.

Of course she’s already done something wrong.

He clicks through his laptop by the little arrows on his ancient keyboard. “Miss Cooper? May I call you Betty?”

“Yes, sir.” His gaze swoops over her, cataloguing with some faint trace of interest before moving back to his screen. She feels inadequate. Like her ponytail is a mess. Like her words are worthless, as is her time. It’s too soon.

This guy is young and attractive and relaxed and _together. _He won't want someone like her to help him out, even if she is completely capable of handling it.

The kitchen bell rings with an order up, and Betty instinctively swivels, as does he. A waitress picks up a steaming pile of onion rings and a shake and saunters off with it to the other side of the diner. When Betty turns back, she catches Mr. Jones looking at _her _as well.

There's a sly, barely-concealed scan of her face. Her sweater. She fights the urge to tug on her sleeves, make them longer so they'll cover her palms. But she's learned how to deal with discerning gazes, and purposely plays with the key necklace at her throat, diverting his attention to what she's doing instead of wearing.

"Which case are you working on?"

He doesn't say anything right away, covering his mouth and glancing his laptop, so she takes a stab in the dark.

"The time period would indicate it was probably something to do with those missing people on the Farm."

"Do you always do your homework? Anticipate things?" With the lilt to his tone, she's not sure if he's teasing.

"Mostly."

"Well, to be frank, I need a minute to collect my thoughts from where I was reading and writing. I'll let you know when the interview should begin."

He double-clicks in quiet focus. She's definitely too early. He didn't have time to prepare. Her teeth start tearing into her lip with every second that passes by in silence knowing that what she's done is wrong. “I’m sorry, I can come back later–”

“No,” he declares rather decisively, rooting her to her seat. “I mean, no. Please stay. You can wait for me, can't you, Betty?" She nods, folding her hands in her lap and tucking her feet back, crossed at the ankles. His gaze drags along the screen. "I’m pulling up my notes on your resumé, which, I must say, is pretty impressive.”

She settles against the sticky vinyl booth, tension dimly pooling in her lower back. “Thank you.”

“Almost _too_ impressive. Why would someone with your qualifications want to be my personal assistant?”

Her tongue unsticks from the roof of her mouth. “As I said in my cover letter, Mr. Jones, I think I’m an excellent candidate.”

Before she can elaborate, he leans back, knees almost knocking hers under the table. “You’re inevitably going to be bored. This isn’t going to be challenging for someone with your experience.”

“Discovering a story is inherently interesting work, Mr. Jones.”

“Your family owns the Register, don’t they?”

Their town is small enough that she shouldn’t be surprised he figured that out from a quick internet search, but it still makes her smile the tiniest bit more strained.

“Why wouldn’t you work for them, instead? Get to unpeel a new story every week,” he muses, draining his coffee cup with resignation.

“With all due respect, I’ve worked and interned at multiple corporations, including my parents’ paper _and_ a publishing house,” she adds slyly, hoping it impresses him. “As long as I’m part of the process, I’ll be happy.”

“And the Register’s assignments don’t provide that kind of fulfillment?”

She licks her lips, not wanting to go into her parents’ permanent dissatisfaction with everything in her orbit, including the town. “I like a good mystery.”

He stares at her, the clink of silverware hitting plates making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “It can be long hours, Betty. You never know when inspiration strikes, nor when it lets go.”

“I don’t mind. As long as we’re…” She trails off, not sure where the sentence was heading. “Patient with each other, I think the story will emerge.” The idea of a book in her hands, one she helps him create by being the best assistant she could be, makes her palms feel warm and smooth.

Unbroken.

“Will you or anyone else be upset if you end up working through the night?”

She bites her bottom lip, hating the way his gaze flickers there like he can tell she’s chewing up her own dignity. “I...live with my parents.”

There’s a carefully considerate tone in his voice that makes her bristle. “Will that be a problem?”

Her nails tighten into her palms. “I’m an adult. They’ll just have to get used to the fact that someone else is telling me what to do.”

He laughs, his voice thick and gravelly from the coffee grinds. “So it might be good to get out of the house.” She turns her head, looking at the cars outside and half expecting to see her mother’s pastel blue steel battering ram of a car out there. “I can respect that. Your schedule will vary, so it’ll work as a nice cover if you need it.” He smiles, and the moment of kindness, of understanding, of just the possibility of reprieve, makes her body want to hug in on itself. Part of her even wants to reach out and grasp his hand in thanks, but it’s too early for that. “Just to be clear, part of the hiring contract will be that you can’t write about this story or our process without my express permission. A, um, a nondisclosure agreement, if you will.” He must know of her parents’ m.o. of using _casual chats_ or even _volunteer work _for a larger story.

“I completely understand. It will still be your voice. Your story.”

“I’m surprised you don’t want to write your own. This assignment might be too dry for an English, Journalism, and…” His eyes dart back to her resumé on his screen. “Communications triple-major. How did you manage three majors, by the way?”

_A lot of pills_.

“I have a well-honed stress and project management system,” she replies effortlessly.

Mr. Jones looks distinctly unnerved, almost like he doesn’t believe her and is somehow disappointed by the answer. She readjusts her shoulders, tilting her chin up for the next question. The dip of the waitress refilling his coffee barely even registers with him. He’s too busy fixing his almost rudely intense stare onto her like he’s his own personal lie detector.

“Do you have children?”

Taken aback, she blinks forcibly, trying not to let her discomfort show. “No.”

“Do you plan on getting pregnant?”

She almost laughs, which he takes to mean a _no_.

“Do you have any significant partners in your life?”

A breath of resignation. “No.”

“What about any health issues that would interfere with your productivity?”

A tremor works its way through her fingers and Betty has to slam her palms into her lap to stop the oncoming storm. Facing the window, her throat starts closing. “These kinds of questions are illegal in an interview, Mr. Jones.”

Stiffening, Mr. Jones straightens in his seat, the harsh intensity of his shoulders falling away. “Sorry. It’s just–I had some applicants seem to think this job was a mini babysitting service and it can require sitting or standing for long periods of focus. It isn’t exactly pet-friendly, either. I can’t interrupt my process for breaks every hour for feedings and walks.”

Relaxing a little, she nods. “That sounds a little high-maintenance.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffs dryly. “Anyway, I’m a big eater, so you won’t starve. If you can cook, all the better.”

“I can cook some, Sir.”

He rolls his shoulders back like he’s trying to maintain a professional stance. That's what Betty does when she needs to reassert she's got everything under control. “If the chairs and mats provided don’t work for your back or knees–” Her eyebrow quirks up. Why would she be on her knees for dictation? Mr. Jones glances away. “We can discuss other ways of working. We’ll use a typewriter for the actual writing process. The sound of the keys helps me think.” She nods, itching to take notes. “Cell phones are a distraction and should be off and out of sight while we’re working. Books are fine.”

At that, her lip quirks, but she tries to hide her amusement.

“What?”

“I just came from the library.”

“Really?” He leans over the table, curious. “What’s your poison?”

It’s a strange way to phrase a question about her selection, but she pulls her bag over nonetheless. She lifts her bag flap up to show him the random assortment before remembering the self-help books her mother added to the pile and flips it closed again. “Mysteries, mostly. It all started with Nancy Drew.”

Although he notices the abrupt change in her demeanor, the pink on her cheeks, he pretends it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Hopefully, he didn’t see any of the titles in that flash of her open bag. “What are you into lately?”

It’s not polite to avoid eye contact in an interview, she knows, but she can’t look at him without her heart pounding and making her feel sort of sick. They talk about books, leading into a frank discussion about the tone he’s going for, possible scheduling.

He sighs, putting his elbow on the table and rubbing his mouth. His eyes are a soft denim blue. Comforting, yet firm. As much as she wants to read him, Betty gets the feeling he’ll see her flaws if she probes him, so she tries to put on her best game face and remain neutral for him to scan.

“There’s something about you, Betty. You’re so…” His hand vaguely gestures wide, curling into a fist like it's conducting a symphony. “Closed tight.”

She shrugs and offers him a wary, slanted smile. “I know."

“Do you ever loosen up?” His eyes twinkle with something close to teasing.

She's never really been..._allowed_.

"I don't know."

"Well," he smiles, putting out his hand, "Maybe we'll find out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grocery shopping bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support thus far!

His sink is black. The faucet is the same, arching elegantly like a swan’s neck instead of short and bent like the modern look she expected. Things are dark, vintage, strangely homey.

There’s no lock on the “sharp objects” drawer here.

He says something, breaking through the veil of her observations. She stiffens and smiles, instinctively flexing her fists before assuring him she’ll be able to figure this room out on her own. Coffee. Sandwiches. Eggs. Nothing too crazy.

She wipes her palms on her skirt, following him into the living room with its heavy sleeper couch, old TV, random workout equipment, and a coffee table. A typewriter is set up on what looks like a secondhand desk along with a clunky laptop covered in band stickers from what she thinks might be his teenage years. It’s like he needs something for writing within reach no matter where he is. Notepads are stacked just beyond the typewriter, black, blue, green, and red pens boldly resting in a plain old mug, and up against the window is a giant corkboard with pins and notes, not to mention red string.

A murder board.

She moves towards it with bated breath.

“Grab a black pen and paper and sit over there,” Mr. Jones commands, gesturing to the couch.

Embarrassed by her forwardness, Betty snatches the materials from the makeshift table and sits in the middle of the couch, poised and ready to take notes. For some reason, a prickle runs across the hairs on her arm in the silence that follows. Mr. Jones’ suspenders clink quietly as he moves towards the board. He appraises her posture, hands clasped behind his back.

“Good.”

She lets out a breath.

_Good._

They jump right into it.

“It _is_ a case about the Farm, by the way,” he says, standing before the murder board, feet turned out towards the couch. “Very good deductive skills, Betty.”

“Thank you, Sir.” A warmth bubbles thickly in her chest. With nowhere to let it go, she lets her eyes drop back to the paper, waiting.

He gives her a variety of tasks after the initial dictation. She spends most of the afternoon on the floor organizing and coordinating Dr. Evernever’s journal entries with other members of the Farm, newspaper articles, etc. Part of her is tempted to read them in their entirety, but she knows that will just slow her down from her task.

“How are your knees?” Jughead glances up from his laptop, brow furrowed.

Betty arches her back to stretch it out. “Fine.”

His lip twitches like he isn’t convinced, so Betty quickly gives her ponytail a tug and gets back to work, seating herself mermaid style for a while.

The sound of something scraping against the carpet draws her out of the tunnel vision of her task. Jughead emerges from one of the rooms he hadn’t shown to her with a wrestling mat in hand. “Move.”

She scoots back, not fully conscious of flashing him as she gathers her things and gets out of the way in an attempt to comply as quickly as possible. The rectangles slide into place. With a grunt, Jughead shoves and spreads the mat out, flattening it with his foot.

“That should help.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t pretend you’re not uncomfortable if you are, Betty. It’s distracting.” She pulls at her skirt, not sure what to say. Jughead takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just tell me what you need, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The curve of his smile makes her cradle the papers and clench her arms around her breasts. “Good girl. Now get back to work.”

She practically rushes to the floor and back onto her knees to resume her task. It’s almost embarrassing, which accounts for the flush she feels on her cheeks, her breasts, even…

Betty tries not to think about it, nor about the way Jughead jumps up onto the workout equipment harnessed to the wall to do pull-ups. The sound of his muffled grunts and breathing combined with the sheen of sweat breaking out on his shoulders is enough to make her thighs chafe. Mr. Jones is interesting to watch. He leans back in his office chair when he’s deep in thought, legs spread, rubbing his lips like the contact stimulates his thought process.

The hours pass quickly, both of them absorbed in their work, so she almost starts when her stomach betrays her with a grumble.

“Are you hungry?” His voice is sharp. Probably because he thinks she’s neglecting her needs again.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t realize–”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’ll make you something.” His gaze flickers hesitantly to the typewriter, fingers still perched above the keys. She remembers what he said about needing a few minutes to disengage from his work when he’s particularly inspired.

“No, that’s fine. I’ll see what I can whip up.”

Jughead opens his mouth to protest but seems to lose his voice when she pops up to a standing position with the relative grace of her cheerleader days. Without wanting to explain why she snapped into position so readily, Betty hurries into the kitchen.

The pantry is stocked with nonperishables like cereal, pasta, and peanut butter, but the fridge is sparse. As she checks the freezer, cool air sifts through her very breathable sweater. She _feels _before she sees him approach from behind. Warm. Tall. Sturdy.

“See anything you like?” he asks.

The chill prickles under her neck. “Is your diet solely starch and carbs?”

“Mostly. You want me to get you something? I could pick something up, or go grocery shopping. I don’t...I don’t know what you’d like.”

“Why don’t I go with you?” she offers, turning plaintively. The distance is only a few feet between them, but she still feels the transfer of his energy rippling through her under his guarded gaze. “That way I can find out what _you _like, which will make planning our meals a little easier.”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes to finish up. Drink some water and use the bathroom down the hall before we go.”

She smiles, teasing. “Yes, Sir.”

Something like relief and delight washes over him with a breathy laugh. “I like you, Betty.”

Feeling pleasure blush all the way to the tips of her ears, Betty spins to close the fridge. By the time she’s secured a glass of water, he’s back at work, typing away.

She likes working for Mr. Jones. As the water hits her parched throat, she thinks she might like working for him _a lot_.

~~~

Jughead finally unstuffs his hands from his jeans pockets when Betty reaches up on tip-toe for the cereal she must’ve already noted he likes.

“Let me.”

“Thanks.” She’s still tucked just under his arm, magical princess eyes gazing up at him when he reaches around her to put it in the cart.

His hands clasp behind his back so he’s not tempted to caress the side of her pretty face.

Hiring her is the best and possibly the worst decision he’s ever made. She’s smart, efficient, forecasts things...but she’s also got what is hands-down the most perfect body and temperament known to man. This is their third time grocery shopping together just because he keeps anticipating she’ll quit so they’ve been buying things in small quantities. The idea of watching vegetables mold and spoil in her unavoidable absence when she realizes how much better she is than this job makes his stomach turn, so they make these biweekly little grocery dates as a way to break up the long days of research and writing. It’s nice, getting fresh air, walking with her instead of standing or sitting over her as usual. Although that’s also...that’s _really _nice.

Nostrils flaring at the thought of her on her knees, Jughead turns down the nearest aisle in the hopes he can regroup his thoughts. He barely catches the way her brow furrows in confusion, nor the half-formed question on the tip of her tongue before he waves her on. “You go ahead. I want to check on something.”

Although she’s unhappy about it, she complies. His good girl. Always _so_ _good_. Jughead grips the shelves and tries to count back from fifty.

_You can’t fuck her_, he reminds himself.

By the time he reaches twenty, he thinks he’s got it under control.

He looks around for a legitimate reason to split off from her by this particular aisle. Just down the dividers, balloons and flora poke out for those who want to surprise their wives or celebrate a birthday with something _fun_. Not something _he’s _used to, but the idea of sprucing up the place now that he has Betty around isn’t such a bad idea. A bouquet would fade. He wants something sturdy - potted. After narrowing down the choices to three, he skims his phone for research on how to properly care for each.

Hydrangeas win out. He’ll even figure out how to cut holes in the bottom of the pot and get a saucer to collect the excess water for it. Maybe that can be something he and Betty can do together.

Grabbing it firmly around the base so the petals don’t bobble off, Jughead stalks through the aisles in search of a blonde ponytail. His heart rate spikes as he catches sight of her. Perfect, bare legs. Skirt. Slightly open blouse.

A _man _is talking to her, some broad-shouldered All-American brunette guy in jeans and a button-down t-shirt (who _wears_ those, anyway?) who’s giving her the human equivalent of puppy dog eyes.

Disgusted by the idea that people _do _actually try to pick up dates in the grocery store, Jughead covers the distance between them in a few quick strides.

“Betty. Thanks for going ahead, thought I’d get something special tonight.” He lets his hand slide across her lower back as he leans over the cart, making level eye contact with the creep.

“Oh, thanks!” Her tone seems bright, forced, and it bothers him that he doesn’t know why. Is this guy bothering her that much? Or is it _him _being too friendly? Her gaze drifts down to the flowers, her expression softening. “They’re beautiful.”

The guy looks surprised, but still annoyingly friendly and engaged. “Oh, wow. Are you two together? I thought you only got out a few weeks ago–”

“Yep. We’re working together.” Betty’s clipped tone and brittle smile break his heart a little. _Working together_. They _work _together. “Mr. Jones is writing the next great American novel.”

“Really?” Puppy-man’s excitement _annoys _him.

“True crime. It’s my calling,” he deadpans, _almost _earning a real smile from Betty, but she whips back to the guy fast enough that Jughead feels his fingertips burn and removes them from her back now that he knows she doesn’t exactly want to push this guy away. Jughead could’ve posed as the boyfriend.

Probably shouldn’t have, but…

“It was so good to see you, Adam! I’m on the clock, so we better get going.”

The ignorant boy touches her arm, not noticing the way she inhales and stiffens. “Hey, call me if you need anything? Seriously, any time.”

“Uh-huh!” Even though she tries shoving the cart through the aisle and past him, _Adam_ still nearly clotheslines her in the attempt to hug her.

“You’re clogging up the aisle.” The urge to punch this kid surges up and down his arms. He may need to run through the fucking parking lot to get a grip on himself because counting sure as hell won’t do it this time.

“Sorry. I hope I’ll see you around!”

Jughead knocks a bag of snacks into the cart just to have something to do with himself. To his surprise, Betty doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make eye contact, just pushes straight ahead to the end of the aisle like she wants all this over and done with.

Pushing aside his annoyance, he speeds up to keep her pace. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“So who’s _Adam_?”

“An ex-boyfriend.” Jughead slows down, letting her get just a little bit ahead. Head down, she pushes a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.

Anger cooling to concern, they go one more aisle before he has the good sense to offer to order Pop’s tonight instead.

“No, it’s fine,” she insists, turning the cart carefully so as not to disrupt their new plant. He doesn’t believe her for a second, but outside of his home, he feels like it’s weird to question her on it. Besides, it’s not like everyone in the grocery store needs to hear their business.

The rest of their shopping experience is pretty quiet, Betty holding tension in her shoulders. He sees the bumps on her arms and unties the plaid shirt around his waist.

“Here. You look cold.”

She scans him, slightly apprehensive, before dipping her arms into the outstretched flannel. “Thank you.”

After that, she’s more relaxed, hands tucked around her waist as if bringing the shirt closer into her body.

“Looks good on you,” he murmurs.

She grins, burrowing deeper into the shirt and biting down on her lip. He has a love-hate relationship with that particular habit, especially when she does it on and off throughout the day, even when they load up the conveyor belt.

“You gonna swipe it or what?”

Starting, Jughead turns to the cashier, a girl with a pixie cut and bad dye job who clearly isn’t being paid enough to watch him ogle his assistant.

“Yeah.”

Trying to count in his head and unlock his jaw, he makes idle chatter. “It’s so much less satisfying now that it’s a tap or a slow-insert to pay. The swipe felt like a triumph.”

“A triumph?” Betty repeats, eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Like a slap on the ass.” The cashier snorts, looking away as Betty’s grin spreads. “In congratulations, I mean. This is probably the wrong audience for that reference. Maybe I should talk to some jocks...even though that usually leads to someone getting punched in the face.” Mercifully, the transaction’s complete, so he tucks his phone in his pocket and tries not to make eye contact as he goes for the tote bags.

“Did you play any sports in high school? College?” Betty asks.

“No.”

“Just had a lot of locker room liaisons? A fist to the face sounds a lot less fun than a palm on the ass.”

He laughs despite the dark reminders of his youth. “Did you just say _ass_?”

“Are you shocked?”

“No. I’m a little impressed, actually.”

“If I had known it was that easy, I might’ve worked it into the job interview.”

It’s _ridiculous _to be grinning this much over a light curse word, but he can’t help it. Avoiding her natural radiance would be like trying to hide from the sun.

“So, do I get the details on _Adam_ or is that weird to talk about considering our…”

“Relationship?”

His heart hammers aggressively in his chest. He tries to remain passive about it.

Taking a deep breath, Betty checks her ponytail and sits down on the back of his bike. “We can talk if you want to.” Afraid to break the spell, he just stands with his hand clasped around his wrist in front of his crotch, completely at her mercy. “Basically, we were high school sweethearts, and when college came around, it made sense to go our separate ways. I heard he was back in town post-grad, but that’s the first time I’ve seen him since high school. ”

“You never _reconnected_ in college?”

“_No_,” she answers definitively. “He was nice. The breakup was fine. He’s, um, he’s a great guy.”

She shrugs at him and it only makes him want to push her _more_. “Do you think you two _will_ reconnect? Same town, same time…”

“But not the same people. Not even the same love, if that’s what two high school friends thinking they were supposed to date because it ‘made sense’ can even be _called_. We grew up. Hopefully, by now we’ve both figured out what we really want.”

“And what do you want?”

The white noise of the world falls away as she looks up at him, the only bit of clarity tethering him to the moment.

“I want to be the best assistant I can be for you, Mr. Jones.”

Her absolutely delightful sincerity does him in. He can feel his cock twitch against his thigh and takes a deep, unsteady breath. “Call me Jughead.”

“Yes, Sir.” Her lips spread in a slow, tempting smile.

His gut tightens in desire. “Even better.”

As soon as they get home, he helps her carry in the groceries and disappears to tend to his own needs. Working out, even high intensity, does nothing to quell his sharp urge for her, so he heads for the shower, feeling the burn of her gaze all the way across the room as he takes his shirt off to wipe his face. Once locked into the safety of his privacy, water beating down his back, he jerks off to the sight of her pretty smile, to her _sir_’s, the way she flashes him every other time she gets up when she’s wearing those tight little skirts.

“Fuck!” His palm slaps against the tile as his body wrecks itself with guilty pleasure.

He wants to be spilling on her pretty lips, inside those perfect thighs.

Groaning, he lets his forehead rest against the cool tile.

After he’s actually washed up and gotten rid of the evidence of his indiscretion, Jughead pads out in a fresh tank top but the same jeans, idly wandering by the kitchen to see what she’s fixed to eat. The hydrangeas seem comfortably situated by the window, already dripping excess water into the tiny saucer pan underneath.

Betty stares at him, still perfect, his shirt’s sleeves rolled up around her elbow probably due to the heat from the stove.

“Dinner?”

“Five...ten more minutes,” she says, swallowing thickly before turning back to the stove.

“Your ears are pink from the cold,” he notices, leaning up against the counter. She reaches up as if to cover them, her cheeks blushing to match. “You should wear your hair down when you get cold like that. I know the ponytail gives you a headache and it’s not like you need to stand on ceremony with _me_.”

“I’m cooking.” Her eyes shift shyly from his chest to the pot. “What would happen if my hair wasn’t up and you got a side of blonde with your noodles?”

“Nothing. I might get more fiber.” She smiles, stirring the water. “Or maybe I’d have to punish you.” Her hand stills. Even though he just emptied himself in the shower, he can feel a dark tightening in his gut. “Is that something you’re willing to risk, Betty?”

“Depends on what the punishment is.”

She reaches back, breasts rising along with her arms as she pulls the elastic out with her nails. Her eyes are bright and sharply fixed on him. She’s waiting.

If he hadn’t just jerked off he’s sure he’d be hard again. He’s already leaning in, pulled like a magnet by the way her hair falls in soft waves, ridged because of its bindings. He wants to fist his hand in it. He wants to press himself fully against her, grope her supple flesh - hoist her up on the counter and pin her hands to the cabinets so he can suck on every delicious inch of her, the blouse shoved to the side.

_You can’t fuck her_, he reminds himself.

Oh, but he wants to.

Her breath seems a little shaky as she stares up at him. “Hungry?”

_Ravenous_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hungry for more? Mwahahaha. Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter and the subtle (and not so subtle ways) Jughead and Betty are becoming domestic and kinky with one another. Thoughts? Fav passages? Things you want to poke me about? Also I think it's fair to say that Jughead doing pull-ups in his tank top and getting all sweaty is a SIGHT TO BEHOLD. Betty psuedo-flashing him every time she gets up probably drives him crazy in the best way possible. I hope it's clear this is super far from sexual harassment though. They are both consciously trying to be respectful of each other's spaces and consent and even the power dynamic so...you'll see more of that next chapter :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hit me for not picking up on the hot scene in the kitchen. There will be touching. I promise. That serves as a nice contrast to the next time Betty is in a kitchen which is where we pick up here. Good luck!

“Have you been gaining weight?”

Polly stifles a snort and Hal freezes, food half-chewed in his cheek. Alice, however, remains unmoved, staring her daughter down with coal lined-eyes and icy blues fixed in rapt appraisal.

Tightening her grip on her spoon, Betty tries to ignore the itch on her thighs and palms. “No.”

Jughead _does_ indulge her sometimes. He lets her lick the spoon when they make chocolate cake. It seems to make _him _happy to make or order a mountain of bacon and give her an extra piece off his plate. She’s been trying to make their food options more healthy, but she also wants to give him what he wants.

“You seem a little puffy. Maybe it’s all those late hours. I think he must be breaking at least ten different labor laws. It’s like he can’t work without you.”

A flush creeps up Betty’s neck. She slaps at it like a mosquito bite. A burn. They can’t _see_ or they’ll keep her away.

“He’s just really invested in the story. You know how it is–once you have a lead, you want to follow it to its conclusion.”

Alice darts a look in Hal’s direction, who studiously keeps eating and reading the latest _Register_ before sitting up a little straighter. “Your father and I were talking, and we think it’s best if maybe you come back to work for The Register.”

Her oatmeal goes tasteless. Sludge. “I have a job.”

“Oh, sweetie, being a personal assistant is hardly a _career_. With those hours you keep? Doing nothing but drudgery for an author with barely any recognition? At least with us...we can make sure you’re looked after.” Alice pours sweetener and cream into her coffee, stirring pointedly with a tiny silver spoon.

All Betty can see in her mind’s eye is the lock on the sharp objects drawer. She can hear the remnants of her parents’ incessant fighting in the office when she worked with them after her post-grad job at an indie publisher fell through.

“I want to stay with Mr. Jones. It’s only right that I help him complete the project he hired me for.”

“But what then? We don’t know how long that will be and neither does he. Are you going to try New York again?” The tiny sip of coffee her mother takes is just a pause.

“I don’t know. Once Mr. Jones is finished with me,” she almost shakes her head at herself for her phrasing. “I’ll start looking for jobs again. For now, things are going well.”

“For now, you’re right,” Alice repeats thoughtfully.

Polly pops a piece of grapefruit in her mouth and sucks the juice out. The sound has Betty on edge.

“I’m just gonna...I’m not very hungry,” she says quietly. “I think I’ll work out after breakfast.”

“Good idea. You know what they say about fresh air and exercise. Your father and I are gonna take Polly and the twins out to the park later. We think you should join us.”

She thinks she winces a smile. “No thanks.”

It’s like her parents think she and Polly are on the same level as the twins. Children to be ferried around, told what to do, what not to do. She dumps the remainder of her breakfast in the sink and spares a resentful glance to the _sharp drawer_ before getting ready for the pool. Her scars are faint lines from before she knew how to do it right.

But just a little hit...just to take the edge off.

Betty hurries out of her clothes and into her bathing suit in the hopes the water will take her mind off of things. The stubble on her legs makes her shoulders tense all over again. Part of her wishes she could just bring a razor to Jughead’s house and shave _there_. Instead, she has to ask her mother for permission and do it while Alice watches her with such rapt attention it’s like she wants to spring forward and do it herself.

Although it’s doubtful anyone’s going to be seeing her privates for a while, Betty does want to keep that area..._trim _as well. At least she has privacy when she gets waxed. The warmth followed by the stinging sensation is almost as good as a slap, she thinks. Sometimes the thought of Jughead’s comment at the grocery store line makes her mind wander. Part of her wishes he’d give _her _a good slap on the ass, but he’s probably too afraid of getting sued to touch her.

Betty sinks into the pool and tries to drown the rest of the world out. Laps will come later. She wonders what Jughead’s doing on his day “off.” Inspiration never sleeps. Maybe he’s writing without her. Or maybe he uses the time to be social and get out more. As someone who always had friends, but never anyone truly _close _to her, Betty’s been in a weird limbo of not going out much since getting out of her program. There’s no one there besides the nurses she’d want to keep in touch with, anyway. Jughead’s probably got secret chats with his friends or an online dating life. Not that he’d bring out in front of her. He probably doesn’t want to tempt her with using a cell phone to entertain herself. Actually, Betty’s not even sure she _has _his cell phone number.

It’s okay, though. He’ll call if he needs her.

For now, she’ll enjoy her rare moment of solitude, weighted, suspended in the pool.

“_Elizabeth!_”

Her given name is garbled, muted through the water. Her mother calls for her again.

Betty shoots up to the surface, gasping and wiping her face. “What? _What_?”

Kneeling at the edge of the pool, Alice holds her hand over her heart. “Were you trying to drown?”

“What? No!” Anger bubbles up her throat. “For the last time, I am _not _suicidal!”

“I just thought…” Her mother’s eyes may as well be bobbing ice shards ready to pierce her skin.

“Why are you here? I thought you were out with Polly and the twins.”

“I was, I just realized I couldn’t leave you alone in case you had an accident.”

“What are you even _talking _about? Weatherbee _said _I’m fine!”

“You know how doctors are, Betty. They give you a prescription and send you on your way–”

Betty’s palms slap against the pool tiles as she wriggles her way out. Without bothering to towel off, Betty stalks into the house, leaving giant runny puddles in her wake.

“Elizabeth Cooper! You come back here right now!”

“_Leave!_” Betty demands. “I’m not a little girl anymore! You can’t summon me and tell me what to do and be afraid I’m going to hurt myself every single minute!”

Alice storms after her with all the resolution of an Amazon warrior. “You think I like having to hover over you? I’d love to be able to trust my own daughter alone in the house for a few hours, but I can’t! Who knows what you’ll do?”

“I was _swimming_.”

“You were _sinking_.”

Salty tears skid down Betty’s face, joining the chlorine puddling around her feet in the kitchen. “I wasn’t! Can’t you ever just trust me?”

“I don’t know if you can even trust yourself.”

Betty hates herself for weeping because she _can _trust herself. She just wants to _breathe_.

“There, there, baby. I’ll make you some tea.” The pat on her shoulder is just..._wet._ “Why don’t you go upstairs and draw a bath and I’ll clean this up?”

“I can clean it up. I can make the tea. Just go back to the park with Polly.”

Tsking her tongue, Alice wipes Betty’s face and tries to draw her cheeks up into a smile. “We’ll get through this, Betty. I’ll be right back with the dry mop and some towels.”

As her mother’s heels click along the hardwood floors and tiles, Betty feels a little piece of herself crinkle and burn inside, like cheese that falls into the coils of a toaster oven. Filling the pastel teapot makes her stomach roll. The ignition on the stove clicks and whooshes with a flame. Alice sidles back through to hand Betty her giant pink fluffy robe and a towel.

“Here. You’re dripping all over.”

She accepts the fluffy items without question, padding herself down in resignation. The robe is so heavy that it’s stifling. Screaming, the tea kettle needles her for attention.

“Fine, _fine_,” she hisses, pulling it off the flame and grabbing two mugs. Her mother’s outside, humming a tune and picking up Betty’s things.

Betty hates this life. She hates the sharp drawer. She’s so overwhelmed by nausea that she grabs the handle of the teapot. Instead of pouring the hot water into the cups she betrays every instinct her mother’s tried to drill into her and presses the hot metal of its base against the inside of her thigh.

It burns. So sweet. So horrible.

Letting the last of her tears slide out, Betty yanks the pot away from her protesting flesh and chokes on her weeping. The shock of the pain seems to have helped dam up the emotion leaking through her.

_Breathe._

_Pour_.

Tying her robe closed to cover the upper part of her legs, Betty gets the tea bags steeped and finds a tissue to blow her nose. Her mother smiles brightly at her through the window, and Betty manages a fake one back. This is what her mother wants.

This is what she needs.

~~~

On Monday, everything feels good again. Her mother drops her off and makes her wear a raincoat even though it’s only thirty steps from the street to Jughead’s door. She doesn’t pull the hood of her jacket up on purpose, letting the drizzle sprinkle her hair and face, cooling her down as she makes her way up the path. The muted _Elizabeth_ doesn’t mean anything to her now, not when freedom is so close. Through the window, she can see Jughead tending to the hydrangeas, carefully pouring water into the pot using a plain water glass. His expression warms as he catches sight of her. He disappears to unlock the door and lets her open it for herself.

An umbrella that wasn’t there on Saturday when she left sits right next to the coat hangers and she idly wonders if he was planning to meet her at the car if the rain got any worse.

“Good morning,” she says warmly, peeling the sticky raincoat from her slightly sweaty skin.

“Morning, Betts. Nice weather we’re having.” He toasts her with his coffee cup, teasing.

“I actually like the rain.” Drops flick from her hair onto the wall and floor. Jughead barely even notices. Maybe they just add to the already sort of gray and brown textures he has here.

“You like everything all dark and gloomy?”

“I like you, don’t I?”

Waffling between beaming and rolling his eyes, Jughead smiles off to the side and shakes his head. “Suck up.”

As she edges off her shoes, neatly stacking them under her coat, she asks, “Do you need anything for breakfast?”

“Not yet. Maybe in an hour I’ll have something.”

Even though she’s technically never slept over, she has been up with him late enough to know he normally goes to bed between 1-3am and wakes up around 8-9:30am. She’s always invited at 9:30am. Her favorite days are when he shuffles to the door with his hair mussed, sleep still in his eyes and pajama pants low-slung enough that she can see the band of his underwear. It’s a privilege to see him a little bit undone, no beanie on his head, no jeans nor suspenders buckled tight on his body.

She thinks she’s a little bit in love with him. That’s kind of what having a crush _is _anyway. The moments when he leans over her pans to sneak a bite of something make her heart rate jump with the urge to turn and kiss him. She gets lost watching him touch his lips when he’s thinking about a scene. There are all kinds of things she wants to _know _about him, things that may always be a vivid fantasy.

Although she’d slapped some aloe on her burn, her thighs still tingle with leftover ache every time they chafe. She’s not sure she can comfortably sit on her knees with her thighs pressed together today.

But then he might be disappointed. She _knows_ how he likes her sitting all prim–at least for a little while. She wants to please him.

She wants to please him_ so badly_.

His shoulders stretch the back of his _S _shirt, one of his many. There are a few coils of hemp by the side of his desk she eyes as she sets down her bag. “Did you do some shopping on your day off?”

“Oh, that. Yeah.” He clears his throat, cheeks rosy from the steam of his coffee. “I was going to investigate dear old Edgar’s different ways of binding people during the hypnosis sessions. I’m sure the FBI thinks I’m insane searching online for a bendy mannequin for sale but–”

“Why don’t you use me?”

Jughead’s eyes go wide, lips turned inward as if his coffee is far too warm but he can’t spit it out in front of her.

Realizing her Freudian slip, Betty smooths the edge of her sundress in the hopes it covers enough of her thighs. “That way you can learn about both sides of it. I can tell you how it feels to be bound and you can practice without...having to bring a mannequin into your house.”

Coffee spills over his lips as he cough-laughs. “That would be pretty creepy, right?” She nods, studying him and smiling. As he wipes his chin, his gaze rakes over her in a way that makes her wish he could cut the dress off with his eyes. “Maybe not any creepier than tying up my assistant.”

“I’m willing if you are.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m going to need more coffee for this.”

They spend the next hour studying in relatively tense quiet. She sits cross-legged on the floor and Jughead must be really distracted because he hardly even notices, his brow furrowed as he studies. At one point he hops up to work out and she abandons her reading to observe his back muscles flex. The labored, repressed grunts as he pulls himself up each time, arms never fully extending, fascinate her.

He lands on both feet with a sharp exhale and addresses her without turning around. “I’m going to shower. I’ll be back.” As he starts to walk past her, he seems to finally note her position and pauses to stare. “You should be more stripped down. I’ll leave a tank top and shorts on the bed if you want something on. The dress will only get in the way.”

Heat flares through her body in anticipation. “Okay.” Clearing her throat, she tries again. “Yes, Sir.’

With an approving nod, he continues his sweaty march to the bathroom. She hears the water running and allows herself to freak out for a minute.

Being tied up on Jughead’s bed–Jughead’s _desk–anywhere in his vicinity_ is something she never thought she’d be handling in a professional setting. Rubbing her arms, Betty heads to his bedroom where the door is actually open and she can see his clothes laid out for her. Although she could just fold her dress and leave it here, let him use her in her bra and underwear, she also knows that he might..._see _things that way. So she strips, pulls on his clothes, lifts her hair and regards herself in the mirror. Her bra is visible through his tank top, the straps poking out obviously along her shoulders. His shorts are baggy and swamp her, but she’s still _cute_, she supposes. More than anything, she just likes sort of belonging to him when she’s dressed this way. _Jughead’s girl_.

With a wistful sigh, she pads back into the hallway, stopping by the bathroom when the sound of his palm smacking the tile startles her. Then he groans. _Empties_.

The sound kick starts her adrenaline and she runs a hand along her tender nipples. She wonders if he always jacks off when he takes a shower. Or maybe...it’s something else?

Aroused, Betty quickly unhooks her bra and slings it out from under the tank top back onto his bed. Her breasts feel _great_. Free.

She’s almost back to the living room when the bathroom door opens, leaking steam. She watches with bated breath as Jughead emerges, his wet hair slicked to one side. With a quick glance toward the bedroom, he seems to catch sight of her clothes on the edge of the bed and stares at them for longer than she would think he would. A tendon in his neck flexes. Betty backs up, nervous, eyeing his black jeans and red shirt, wondering if she’s read everything wrong.

“Betty?”

She answers from nearly around the corner into the living room itself. “Yes, Sir?”

“We’re going to have to go over a few safety words.”

“Yes, Sir.”

They decide to go basic, use the colors. She tries not to bat her eyelashes too much at him since he seems to be having a hard time making eye contact in general, his whole body tense. They both record a verbal agreement that they’re okay with tying as long as there are no blue limbs or anything seriously dangerous.

“What do you want me to do...in between knots?” he asks, glancing at his laptop for what are no doubt notes on the practice.

“Caress me. Tell me how I’m doing,” she says, mind already flashing with a fantasy. “If I’m moving too much, you have my permission to slap anything particularly fleshy. Should we talk about protection?”

At that, he looks up at her, his eyes practically a raging storm. “I have a pair of scissors and knives in case the knots get too tight. We’re binding. Not…”

“Whatever we’re doing, Juggie. Sir.”

Nostrils flaring, he nods. “Let’s start with binding. Tell me how you’re feeling as we go, otherwise, I’ll check in with you throughout and at the end. Sometimes people in bindings go into a...a _trance _state.”

“Lucky me.”

Taking a deep breath, he holds her hand, the fire in his eyes flickering low. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

“Do you trust me? ”

“I trust you.” She’s never wanted anything more. “Trust _me _that I’ll tell you when I don’t want something, Sir.”

“I will.” With that, Jughead wraps the rope around her wrist.

She feels suspended in disbelief. He _trusts _her - just like that. No locks on the drawers. No hiding his wallet and knives. The way he watches her is so different than the way her family does. It takes significant willpower to refrain from climbing into his lap for a hug - for _everything_.

His touch grounds her. He’s twisting, observing. Even the tugging motion makes her jerk towards him, extremities already tingling. He plays light music in the background, occasionally referring back to a video tutorial for different poses. All her nerve endings feel lit up in anticipation as he orders her to bend, sometimes just by implying it with movement, other times with the firm baritone of his voice.

She knows the history of shibari and erotic rope tying after enjoying the drunken ramblings of a friend in college who then showed her some _interesting _videos and photos they had on their phone. The person being tied is the “rope bunny,” the canvas. The person who ties them is the “rigger,” the artist. The rope itself is the brush.

This may be for _research_ but it’s not purely for the Farm. She’s enjoying it. There is a certain freedom that comes in just following the path he puts her on while making sure she’s comfortable the whole time. Her breasts feel like they’re throbbing under the touch of the band as he crosses over her sternum. A little needy noise escapes as she arches her back to get more of him to touch her, his eyes flashing dark on her face.

“Color?”

“_Really _green.”

Hesitating, Jughead rocks the rope over her shoulder, looping loosely around her neck and knotting so it won’t choke her. “Color?”

“Green.”

He nods, bringing the rope across her shoulder blade, sliding it across her breast and back again. Her nerve endings feel electrified, like her barely-concealed nipples are connected straight to her clit or at the very least a pleasure center of the brain. As he keeps rolling roughly...back and forth...back and forth...Betty moves in small circles to keep in tandem.

This is heaven.

Imagining his hands where these ropes are is too much. He’d be almost everywhere: her wrists, her hands, her neck, back, stomach.

The poses feel more like stretches with caresses. There is sort of a trance, her body tingling on the dull side of _almost _pain and being held tightly by his embrace.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, stroking her hair, her arms, her sides. She really wants him to pluck at her breasts, bite her nipples and her throat while he rubs her through his shorts, but that might be too much for him.

He winds around her hips, down her legs, mostly avoiding her thighs, thankfully. They play for what must be an hour. She’s practically buzzing and he’s already got a fine sheen of sweat by the time they switch positions again and she’s half-seated on the mat, Jughead kneeling above her.

“What do you want me to do with your legs?” he asks, snaking the hemp rope out like it’s long enough to whip her.

Her thighs tremble at the prompt.

As his palm splays her thighs open, she flinches. The sting of her burn hurts.

His eyes flash with worry and he pulls back. “Yellow?”

“Yellow,” she nods, trying to spread her thighs by herself. She has to be good for him so he’ll do it again, so she can feel good like this again. The stretch make her whole body feel _special_. An instrument playing a beautiful song. A canvas making way for a masterpiece.

His lips are parted, dark curls in front of his face as he bows her back, tightens her ankles, but then the lovely stretch slaps into pain again as the rope around her knee slides up and under her shorts, skidding over her sensitive flesh.

“Yello–”

“Red.”

She gasps, shocked, as Jughead quickly unwinds and tugs the knots loose. “N–no. We don’t need to stop. We just need to–”

“It’s hurting you.” His face is the most ashen she’s ever seen it. He says it like he loathes himself.

“No, it’s just my thigh. I swear everything else is fine.”

As he untangles her, the vibrations stop in her veins. There’s no more music. She’s no longer an instrument of pleasure.

Feeling bereft, she just lays there, fighting her shame. This is her own fault that she can’t perform the way she wants to. She’s not a pure canvas for him to–

“You did so well, Betty.” His sincerity makes her heart ache.

Sniffing, she turns her head.

She’s not a bad canvas. He’s not a bad rigger.

They just need to communicate.

As the binds around her wrist loosen, Jughead sits on his knees before her, his hair still hanging limp.

“You did, too. It was just my thigh,” she repeats. “Just for now. I’m…”

She hadn’t realized that in untangling her, in removing his touch, the shorts had ridden up for him to see the beginning of that angry welt. Her breasts are practically splayed out of the tank top, but of course her thigh is where his gaze would be hovering, terrified.

Yanking the material down, Betty sits up, heart slamming so hard in her chest that she feels like she’s going to heave. Jughead wouldn’t send her away. She doesn’t want him to watch her the way her mother does. Lock up all the sharp objects.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Betty…”

“I’m fine. It was an–” _Accident_ rolls in her brain, reminding her of the _incident_. “A burn. That’s all.”

He grazes her wrist with his hands like he’s trying to wipe away the imprint of the hemp rope altogether. It’s not regretful, exactly. There’s still a tenderness to it. “Why did it happen?”

Not _how_. Oven doors tend not to hit the inside of the thigh. Nor curling irons.

She takes a deep breath. “I was making tea. My mom was…”

His frame tightens in on itself. “Is she hurting you?”

Betty laughs out of nerves more than actual humor. “No. Not–no.”

“You mean not _technically_?” There’s something about the bitter resignation in his tone that makes her chest ache.

Bringing her knees up to her chest to protect her breasts and the burn from scrutiny, Betty holds onto his forearm. “I still feel a little shy talking to you about..._that_. My family is just...they’re out _there_, you know?” She gestures mildly to the window still blocked by a giant flag and murder board. “You and I are in here. I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want to ruin _us_,” she states simply, scratching lightly at his skin.

_Please don’t fire me._

She tries to show him she’s still the same girl from a few days ago, the same one he wanted to tie up and touch. “I’m really happy. I promise.” Squeezing his hand, she thinks she gets a moment of clarity from him. He rearranges to bring one of his own knees up, the other falling to the side as he studies her carefully.

“Betty, I know I'm your employer and we have somewhat of a prescribed relationship...but you really should feel free to discuss your problems with me.” Biting her lip, she nods. She feels like telling him everything. “Do you want some hot chocolate? Tea?”

She smiles, already feeling relaxation drip back into her bloodstream. “I think we have some mini marshmallows if you want.”

“If _you _want,” he insists, squeezing her hand. The affection and attention makes her go all warm and fuzzy and she lets him help her up so they can go to the kitchen together. “I’ll handle things. You stand there, right where I can see you.”

Shifting, she covers her front with her arms. It feels wrong to be so lewd right now, showing her nipples amidst hot chocolate and marshmallow time. The kettle whistles amidst his racing thoughts. His brow’s furrowed like he’s thinking. Water pours and collects and the metal spoons click and stir and finally, he presents her with bobbing bits of fluff and warmth.

She cups it in her hands. “Thank you.” As she blows on the rim, steam wafting away, he watches her lips before flicking his gaze back up to her eyes.

“Betty, sit with me on the couch, will you? If it doesn’t hurt your leg.”

Swallowing the ‘_Yes, Sir’ _is difficult, but she gets the feeling the sentiment would be inappropriate right now so instead she just nods and smiles.

She props her injured leg up on a cushion for comfort, but also so he knows she’s taking care of herself. This is the first time they’ve really been seated across from each other on a couch like this. They’re both a little more relaxed up here. He’s more in the mode of the guy she goes grocery shopping with than the one with hawk eyes pecking at his typewriter and making sure her knees aren’t sore.

She takes a tiny sip of the delicious drink. “I just don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”

The words have barely left her mouth and he’s already declaring, “I don’t think you’re crazy.” He’s probably the first one with knowledge of her injuries outside of the hospital who would agree, which is sad, because she’s _not _crazy.

Licking her lips, Betty stares at the way his shirt wrinkles. This one doesn’t have an _S _on it and she wonders if that was intentional.

“Look, I don’t know–I can’t presume to know what you’re going through. I can _guess_,” he says earnestly, his own knee sliding up to accidentally nudge into hers. “My parents never technically struck me, but I grew up in a toxic environment. They...their choices hurt me.” She places a hand on his knee instinctively. _Comfort_. She hopes he feels _something. _As if sensing her hope, he places his hand over hers and smiles. “At least you didn’t hurt anyone else.”

Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head, squeezing his knee firmly. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I know, Betty.” The quiet way he dips his chin and smooths his thumb over her knuckles makes her hairs stand on end in anticipation.

“But you hurt _somebody_?”

His grip tightens and he inhales deeply before he seems to decide to plunge onwards. “I used to fight people in school because I couldn’t get away with it at home. It was always over stupid things. One guy was trying to call me Latchkey - as if _Jughead_ the name wasn’t worthy of mockery and he had to dig deeper to the meat of me.”

“So you punched him?”

Strangely enough, he smirks. “I dared him to _spell _latchkey. So he punched me.”

The mental image of a gangly teenage Jughead snarking off to a bully gives her a tiny bit of clarity. “You hit back, I presume.”

He squeezes her hand, looking down in faint embarrassment. “Yeah. I always hit back. Lashed out. Argued my way through things.”

“What changed?”

His gaze feels so _friendly _and sweet compared to its common heated intensity.

“Luckily, I had writing and a good friend – a safe escape. You have me. If you need–if you _want _me.” They sit in silence for a few seconds, letting it soak in. His voice is so quiet, so warm and syrupy like the hot chocolate when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Nodding, he considers her. “So you want me to detective some things?”

Even though it’s macabre, she smiles and nods, eager for his assessment. This is what they do, she thinks. Work well together. Unravel things and weave them back together in a beautiful tapestry. Inhaling deeply through his nose, Jughead glances at the murder board and then back at her face, her legs, _everything_, scooting closer and looking into her eyes. The openness between them saturates a deep sense of _good _in her world.

“The burn happened yesterday on your day off. It was messy, hurried, and hidden, which means you haven’t burned yourself like this before and you were short on time. You stood back from the tea kettle until it was handed to you like the good girl you are, which makes me think you were acting out with someone–or some_thing _who treated you like you were bad when you were really being good. Did you need to justify their behavior, Betty?” Bristling, she leans away, stilled when his hand lands on her ankle. “Or was it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface…” Her heart lights up in surprise as he continues in his narrative with beautiful cadence. He watches her like she’s some rare and beautiful bird that’s graced his windowsill but might spook if he moves too suddenly. “When you see evidence of the pain inside...you finally know you're really here. Then when you watch the wound heal, it's comforting, isn't it?”

He strokes her ankle idly and her throat is full of emotion, of gratitude. Not even Dr. Weatherbee phrased it so beautifully. He never _saw _her–saw _it _like that.

“I...that’s a way to put it.” She chuckles, smiling shyly as she hides behind the mug for another sip.

Nodding, Jughead regards her carefully. “I’m going to tell you something. Are you ready to listen?”

Her posture goes straight. Ready. “Yes.”

“Are you listening?” She nods, captivated. “You will never...ever...hurt yourself again.” Waiting, a little surprised, she’s not sure when to relax. His grip tightens on her ankle like a manacle. “Do you understand? Have I made that perfectly clear?”

What he’s saying sounds so simple, but it _can’t _be. She opens her mouth, struggling to form a question. He continues.

“You’re past that now. It’s in the past.”

_In the past._

“Yes.”

“Never again.”

Her chest constricts. “Okay.”

She’ll try. It’s in the past. Like Adam. Like college. Like a lot of things.

He raises his eyebrows as if to clarify the depth of his sincerity. “No more.”

Nodding, she swallows.

“And you know what I want you to do?” She shakes her head. “I want you to finish your hot chocolate and take off work early today.” For a moment, she feels unbearably uncomfortable. Going home is the last thing she wants to do. Sensing her unease, he scoots closer and massages her ankle. “You don’t have to leave. I just want you to have a break. Maybe try things that you normally wouldn’t have the space to do or explore. I want you to indulge in something. Don’t worry about today - I’ll pay.”

“You don’t have to pay me for not assisting you.”

“Trust me, I want–nay, _need_ you to be healthy, and if that means having you go to the movies or spa for the rest of the day, so be it. Hell, take a walk around Pickens Park and feed the fish or dance in the rain.” The idea of cool water splashing her legs is a little intoxicating. Jughead seems to respond favorably to the shift in energy, his eyes crinkling in fondness as her smile blooms behind the heat of her beverage. “You’re a big girl, a grown woman, and you don’t need anyone telling you what you need to find relief.”

“_Yes_.”

“This town is small enough that your mother doesn’t need to drop you off anymore. I’ll come get you from your home, or we can meet at Pop’s and have coffee or milkshake first, if you like. You could even walk or bike to get some fresh air. You require relief, right Betty? Because you won’t be doing _that_ anymore, will you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good.”

She nods, feeling determined. He has faith in her. Leaning forward, she can tell by the tilt of his chin that she’s supposed to bow. He presses a kiss to her forehead that warms her down to the bone.

“Good girl.”

As she steps out into the rain, she realizes she’s never done something like this. Jughead toasts her from the window with the remnants of her hot chocolate and empties the water tray under the hydrangea. It’s been so long since she’s been able to walk anywhere _alone_ without anyone waiting for her to fall apart.

Rain pelts onto her jacket as she moves forward, uncaring where she heads. Possibly towards the park with the swing set and playhouse made of plastic where she can have safety and risk swooping around her.

Because Jughead gave her permission to do this, had insisted on it, she feels held by him as she walks along. She feels like he’s with her.

Thunder and lightning crackle in the distance, but she still feels the phantom ropes of his touch keeping her nerve endings alive. At the same time, she feels something growing in Jughead and her connection, an intimate tendril creeping from one another’s darkness, basking in sunlight and nursed on the feeling that they had discovered something intimate about one another.

The clouds move in stormy grays and she lets the drops sprinkle down her cheeks and slide along her neck. Nothing will cut her from this elated feeling, this embrace under her skin.

It’s been planted deep in her. Love. Beyond desire. For herself. For Jughead.

She’s decided to let herself be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playdates with Betty! That should be another fic. So what did you think? Next chapter will be all the smutty things and more emotional bearings and Jughead's perspective so don't you worry. There's also cuddling. I, for one, am relieved that both in the film and this fic the heroine finds a healthier form of relief and support and I hope all of you feel that this week. Love. LOOOOVE. Or whatever it is that makes you breathe easy. The magical thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some smut and spanking cometh. It's sentimental. The characters made me write it!

There’s an unnatural ache in his bones when she’s gone for the day. He spends most of it trying to be normal. He cleans up and organizes the rope before writing down his observations–the adrenaline rush, the unspoken communication between canvas and rigger that seemed to well up with every movement, the persistent fear that he’d hurt her for real despite researching like crazy for _years _on things like this. His hands had trembled up until the moment he secured the first knot and then it was just…

_Good_.

Natural.

Betty always treats him with respect, affection, and faith, like he’s worth more than his latest book sales.

Seeing that burn on her leg had been a horror and a relief. _He _hadn’t lost control and hurt her in their bondage. In his own way, he’s come to love her and wants to nurture her joy. Maybe...maybe _love _is a strong word, one that he tries to weed out of his vocabulary whenever possible unless it deals with the Andrews family and his longtime best friend. He does _care_ for Betty. Deeply. Wholly. Lusts for her, even.

Jughead touches his lips, remembering the sweet, shy, then eager way she’d regarded him over the hot chocolate mug. Supporting her feels...natural. It’s not just monetarily - the stipends for her wonderful work are hardly a fortune.

Anyway, with her living situation, there are more important things to think about than the technical word he associates with the tenderness and desire threaded through their every interaction. It’s not like she needs _saving _or a big strong man to tell her parents to get their shit together. He’ll give her whatever she _does _need. A day to herself. A place to sleep, to eat, to be free.

_To be loved?_

There he goes again with his ridiculous selfishness.

He trusts her not to hurt herself. She’ll tell him when she needs help.

Hopefully.

He sinks down onto the couch wondering if he should just give up and watch TV. It’s a little lonely without her. Empty.

Taking the day away from her parents and having an alibi for it will be good for her. He can’t be selfish with her. Not really.

With a resigned sigh, Jughead tries writing for about an hour and a half despite his brain shorting out. He keeps glancing at the wrestling mat and couch and expecting to see his–to see Betty. How is she going to work comfortably tomorrow?

Irritated, he does some research and makes a shopping list. Buying this kind of stuff might be _awkward _around her, so he grabs his keys and hesitates, wondering if he should check on her, if she’s coming back tonight. He doesn’t expect her to.

He _wants _her to.

Rolling his eyes at his newfound neediness, he sends Betty a quick text about heading out to the store, asking if she needs anything, even feminine products. Since she’s practically living with him, it only seems fair that he provide some of that stuff.

He wonders if actually asking if she’d like to stay with him is too presumptuous.

Buying things for her makes his stomach feel like it’s stretching and dancing in his gut. During check out, the usual cashier with the pixie cut seems to notice his missing limb, looking at the empty space beside him and probably noting his slumped-in posture. He swipes quickly, grabbing the tote bag Betty’d insisted he invest in and hauling everything back to his car.

He keeps his eye out for her raincoat as he drives home. It’s not until he’s already unpacked the supplies and is lost in the click of his typewriter that he hears a sweet knock at the door amidst the ambiance of rain.

Without even checking the window, he pulls the door open. Betty’s cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright with energy. “Hi. Mind if I come in?”

“Please.” He steps back and ushers her in, grabbing her raincoat as she shrugs out of it. She smiles over her shoulder at him and it’s like a paintball of warmth to his chest. “Did you have a good time?”

“Today was just what I needed.” She shivers as her smile seems to get even bigger.

“You cold?” His hand finds her shoulder, sliding down to her bare arms to warm her chilly flesh. “You should take a warm bath or at least let me grab one of my hoodies for you.”

“Honestly, I’d rather just have a nap...if I’m still off the clock, that is.” Her slightly damp ponytail drags teasingly across her back as she tilts her head, questioning him.

The image of her sprawled out on his bed all tied up flares in his brain and he tries to shut it down by looking away. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll grab you a comforter.”

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll make some decaf tea. You want coffee?” Flouncing across the kitchen, she busies herself with the cabinets.

“Decaf tea actually sounds good right about now.”

Her raincoat sags in its heaviness on the hook, dripping onto the floor while she shines a few feet away.

He has never been one to have anything decorative on his couch before - not even a throw blanket. It’d be _easier–nicer_ if he could let her stay on his bed. Nest in the sheets, lay splayed–

_Don’t go there, _he reminds himself, throat tightening.

He goes to the bedroom to grab a pillow and comforter and lay them on the couch for her.

“Fresh from the pot,” she announces cheerily, carefully setting their mugs on the coffee table. With near-practiced ease, she sits down and pats the space next to her in summons.

He grins at her cat-like feigned innocence. “So that’s it? You’re taking a break, therefore I am too?”

“Yes.” The rain must’ve made her eyelashes thicker; they seem more powerful as they bat at him. “Sir.”

With a shaky breath, he sits next to her, sipping his tea and laying his arm across the back of the couch. “Tell me about your time off.”

She tells him about how she felt, what she did, why she felt things, idly spinning her hair from its elastic. There’s a pretty little ridge that causes a slightly asymmetrical wave to her locks and he wants to stroke it. They keep chatting, sipping, his hand eventually making its way into the silk of her hair, her eyes closing in satisfaction upon the touch.

_She wants this_. She wants _them._

The realization startles him. He kind of _knew _she wanted..._something_...but the pull’s gotten impossible to ignore. He strokes her hair, hoping it comforts her. “If you ever need a place to crash or just to get away, you’re always welcome here.” He almost offers to have her move in permanently, but that could be weird - more selfish thinking on his part. Something about the way she looks at him just makes him want to _hold _her and never let go.

“So you’re saying I have an open invitation?” He nods, trying not to let his heart crawl out of his chest and into her lap. Glancing at his lips, she regards him thoughtfully. Her eyes are the most beautiful green - the smartest, sexiest, yet somehow most endearing things he’s ever seen. “Is that only for...when things are tough?”

“It’s for always.” His heart swells and he has to break eye contact before he does something stupid and selfish like kiss her. “Back to the grind.”

He clears his throat, grabbing his mug and high-tailing towards his desk with her green eyes marking him the whole way. It’s a rare position, for her to be seated on the couch and him on the desk chair - almost the same level. After a few minutes of her _watching _him, he tries to make a joke. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Betty fluffs her hair one last time before nestling into his comforter with a minkish smile. Wiggling to face inwards of the couch, her satisfied sigh curls around his gut and tugs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, turning back to his work. Her soft breathing is a comforting backdrop to his words as they flow across the page. The narrative flows across the page, keys pattering at the same intensity as the rain.

What may be a half an hour later, the comforter shifts, her peaceful profile coming into view as her arms struggle with something. Brow furrowed, he tries to figure out what she’s doing. A strap pops into view as she resettles.

Her _bra_?

She took off her bra in front of him.

All kinds of scenarios flit through his brain of how he could inspire her to fling it in random places around the house - including a second time for his bedroom floor. That first time right before their binding had left her in nothing but his sheer tank top. Everything he saw - and didn’t _quite _see - was so intimate, so inspiring.

Something almost violent stirs within him. An impulse.

“Betty.”

At the sharpness of his voice, Betty starts, sleepy eyes focusing on him.

“Are you uncomfortable?” She shifts, dragging the bra further into her cocoon. Hiding it won’t help. His heels push into the carpet to push him from his desk. “_Betty_.”

“_Juggie_,” she whines mildly, rolling towards him in a stretch. “I’m fine.”

Frozen, he studies her: the way her back arches in a stretch, how sweet her face is when she’s sleep-addled and relaxed. It reminds him of the beginnings of her trance in their bondage session.

“Do you want to go to bed, Betty?”

She clamps onto her cocoon, burrowing in. “I’m fine. Are you–do you need me to?”

She’s so sweet to want to please him. “I want to let you rest,” he clarifies, stroking the edge of his keys. “It seems like the best way to do that is to take you to bed. If you want–if you need it and feel comfortable sharing that space.”

“I am...I want to.” Blushing, hiding what he thinks is a smile, Betty snuggles down into his comforter.

As he strides over, he _feels _the distance shedding between them. She looks up at him, waiting.

He could say, “_Come_” and hold out his hand. Something about the way she’s so neatly tucked into his comforter has him sweeping her into his arms bridal style instead. The weight is momentarily staggering. It’s been a while since he’s had to carry anybody–any_thing_, but it feels like a good heaviness. Grounding. She’s glowing, one hand gripping onto his neck, and she tilts her toes when they have to angle to fit through the hallway and door.

“There you go, Betty,” he says softly, moving part of the comforter away as he sets her on the mattress. Kneeling, he watches as she blinks up at him slowly, every movement an invitation, a _thank you_.

“I should–I should go,” he says quietly, shifting his weight back onto his knees.

“I thought you said we could share. You don’t have to–”

“Betty, I’m your boss,” he pleads, helpless and aching to lay with her.

Stroking his face, Betty shakes her head, gaze flicking sharply to his lips. “You’re my Sir.”

It hits him like a honey-coated fist.

“I want you here. With me.”

He collapses into her, his knees off to the side, chest covering hers. Gasping, her arms shoot around him and squeeze like she’s catching him instead of being crushed by his body. A small groan escapes him as they weave tighter together.

“‘S’okay,” she mumbles sleepily, rubbing his back. “‘S’okay. Stay with me.”

Chuckling, he kisses her hair. Her cheek. Her eyes are heavy with satisfaction and she’s practically glowing when he manages to pull back enough to look at her.

He shouldn’t have kissed her like that. He shouldn’t look at her like this, so happy and ready to hold her.

In order to keep her so content, he’s pretty sure he’d do anything. Everything.

“Juggie.”

“Go to sleep,” he urges gently, brushing her hair back. “I’ll stay with you. Stay as long as you need.”

They shift and butterfly open the comforter, Betty watching with eager, sleepy pleasure as he shimmies out of his jeans and settles behind her.

Being wrapped around her feels so _good,_ breathing in her shampoo and rainwater. Better than air. Better than everything.

She holds his hand against her heart. “I feel good.”

Warmth and relief swim through his limbs as he tightens around her. “So do I.” He kisses her ear. “So do I, Betts.”

~~~

Betty feels the phantom warmth of Jughead’s embrace the whole walk to Pop’s. It certainly helps to guard her against the chilly line of questioning her mother pestered with when she refused a ride to work, citing that she needed to exercise more. Betty still feels the urge to sprint all the way there just so she’s not outright lying.

Maybe Jughead will work her out today. Tying her up has to be _some_ kind of exercise.

Glowering over his coffee, Jughead lights up when she enters the diner, rearranging his knees and posture to make as much room as possible for her across him in the booth.

“So are we really having breakfast today or is this all a facade?”

“Breakfast is never a facade.”

Shaking her head fondly, Betty cools her fingers against the condensation of her water glass. It’s tempting to just stay with him - never go back home - but she doesn’t want to impose on him yet. They’re both so excited about _this _stage and she wants to see where it takes them.

Their breakfast is beautiful. He dips his sausages in the syrup of her pancakes, licks his lips after each sip of coffee. Her feet slide over his under the table. With a knowing, subtle look, he sets his coffee cup down and settles further into the booth to extend his legs, one resting between hers. She feels caged in and loved.

“Can you try the ropes again when we get back?”

He smirks, looking at his nearly-empty plate. “You liked those?”

“Yes.” His gaze flicks up and locks into hers, the color of his eyes reminding her of the vibrancy of rain. “I liked cuddling, too.”

He laughs, adjusting so his leg rubs against her again. “I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years.”

“Maybe we could take another nap today.”

“You’re just trying to get out of work.”

Giggling, she reaches out to take his hand. “You could take a break _with _me.”

He warily regards her, slightly bemused, fiddling with her hand more than explicitly holding it. “Maybe.”

“I hear it’s good for your health.”

“You’re using my words against me to get me to stop working. Worst assistant ever.”

Even though it’s a joke, she cringes in on herself, sitting up straight and tucking her feet behind her ankles.

He clears his throat, brushing her with his foot. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Sometimes she forgets that they _work_ together because it never feels like _stress_. "I bet you’ll crank another chapter out today.”

She sips her drink and avoids eye contact, pushing at her own pancakes under his watchful gaze.

“Take another bite.” Surprised, she glances up at him. He gestures with his chin and eyebrows. “One more bite. I’ll finish it off.”

Her fork cuts through the soft almost-pastry and she scoops it between her lips.

“Good girl.”

It tastes so _good_ \- buttery and smooth all the way down her throat, settling deep in her gut.

His arm snakes around her back as they leave, gently guiding her out. Pop watches them from behind the counter and she _prays _the look she sends him translates to, “_Please don’t tell my mother._”

At the house, Jughead slings his keys on the hook and strides ahead of her, kicking off his shoes. Even his gait is attractive to her, long limbs loose and confident in his own home.

“I need to get these pages done. Start with the white out on the ones I typed yesterday. We’ll go from there.”

_Go to the mat_, she hopes. She’d seen the way he’d eyed her through his sheer tank top yesterday, so she’s wearing a mid-thigh skirt and loose, slightly sheer blouse in the hopes he’ll have her take everything off. For now, she gets into the rhythm of her work. At a few points in the morning she catches him watching her. Although his mouth is in a fairly neutral cupid’s bow, his gaze is warm and makes her smile to herself.

The whiteout clears his minimal mistakes. She takes her time with each brushstroke to make sure it’s right, that she’s efficient and good for him. Laying the pages out on the mat, she blows on them to help them dry. Still, they need more time. She heads outside to get the mail, the air refreshing, still dewy and nice. Yesterday’s blessing seems to keep gracing her lungs. The mailbox creaks, the content from the envelopes compact and heavy compared to the crisp sheets she’s used to handling from his typewriter, from books.

A glimpse of blue more faded than the sky catches her eye and squeezes her lungs.

It’s her mother’s car just at the end of the block. There is almost _no _reason for her mother to be in this residential area, not unless she randomly has a friend here or a source to interview.

She doesn’t. Betty knows she doesn’t. She can even see her mother’s blonde highlights peeking up over the dashboard as if scrunching down makes her invisible.

Panicked, Betty automatically goes back into the house and locks the door behind her. Dropping the mail on the counter, she flexes her fingers. There’s numbness running through them - a trembling in her veins.

She can’t hurt herself. That’s in the past, now. Tears prickling along with her panic, Betty spreads her palms on the counter and tries to work herself down into a calm state. Minutes. _Minutes_. She keeps watching the clock, breathing deep. Adrenaline pounding in her ears, Betty glances out the kitchen window.

Her mother’s still there.

Her mother’s creeping into the vents, the smog from her car choking her lungs, stinging her eyes.

She thinks of Jughead in the other room. Careful, private, thoughtful Jughead. He’s supposed to be _protected. _He’s supposed to be _safe _from this. _She’s _supposed to be safe from this. If he finds out about this invasion of a newspaper mogul, he might want their story–their _partnership_ to end.

She can’t. They can’t.

Without any idea what she’s going to say, Betty yanks back open the door and heads down the sidewalk. Of course the blue car is still there, and of course, her mother scrunches down, only sitting up and rolling down the window when Betty marches right in her direction.

Alice’s falsely pleasant tone infuriates her. “Betty, I was just in the neighborhood–”

She catches sight of her mother’s notepad on the passenger’s seat with notes about their comings and goings, a rap sheet on _Forsythe Pendleton Jones III_ tucked underneath. Fury boils under her skin.

“How _dare _you?” she snaps. “How _dare _you stalk me at my place of work and bring Jughead into this? Did you follow us to Pop’s, too just to make sure I didn’t eat too much?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The only reason I’m here is to make sure you stay out of trouble.”

The edge of the window pane pushes hard into her palms and she half expects her mother to try to roll it up just to get her to step away. “What trouble? Getting the mail? Editing papers? Or were we grocery shopping too much to be considered _good society_?”

“Lower your voice,” Alice warns, her manicured, moisturized hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I know you’ve been slacking on your meds, but that’s no reason to get testy.”

“What, are you counting the pill packs? Weatherbee said to take them as needed and I haven’t needed them.”

The winged eyeliner around her mother’s eyes seems sharper when she narrows them. “Oh really? I have it on good authority that you were running around in the rain for _hours _yesterday.”

It wasn’t _hours,_ but she’s too flabbergasted to argue the point. “So?”

“First of all, you could’ve gotten sick. Second of all, you were _supposed _to be at work!”

“It was my _break!_”

“And _third _of all,” Alice continues louder, irritated, “after your _incident_, what do you think it looks like to have you running around like a child getting wet in a storm like that? It’s insane. It’s irresponsible. You’ve totally lost control.”

Her breath catches in her throat, the world pulsing around her. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’m not saying that you are,” Alice placates unconvincingly, “but clearly this Jug-Head isn’t keeping an eye on you. I think it’s best we take you back home or maybe even the hospital for another check-up. You’re not _well_.”

Staggering back, Betty stares at her mother. “How could you say that?”

Alice fumbles like she actually considers getting out of the car.

“No. How could you say that to me? I did _every _program you wanted me to. Got _every _grade, applied for the right internships, the right colleges, got the _right ‘_out of college’ job and came back just like _you _wanted me to. Your way doesn’t work for me. Clearly, it doesn’t work for _you, _either, because you’re still here! You _still_ don’t trust me and you’re still getting upset that I’m–_me_! You keep trying to make me some sweet, perfect little girl who never goes out in the rain and takes every pill you try to sugar-coat down her throat. It’s not who I am, it’s not who I’ll ever be, and I’m sick of _disappointing _you for it!”

“You’re spinning out of control again, Betty! What am I supposed to do? Watch you get hurt or taken away?”

“Just let me enjoy my life and build a relationship–a _career_ on my own.”

“Doing _errands_ for a pyromaniac thug who went to juvie for destroying property is _hardly _building a career. Did he tell you his parents have served hard time? No wonder he’s always investigating crime - he’s probably trying to plan their next heist.”

“If I catch you anywhere near Jughead again, I am calling the cops for trespassing.” Furious, upset, Betty spins on her heel and heads back down the sidewalk.

Her mother sounds affronted, the volume indicating she’s leaned her head out the car window. “You would call the police on your own mother?”

“Yes. It’s for your own good.” It’s the same thing Alice said when she checked her into treatment. Maybe she thought it had been. Maybe not. Regardless, it was a band-aid solution to what her mother probably viewed as an infinite problem.

_Crazy._

That’s what she’ll always be. Betty, the one who needs to be pulled away from anything Alice Cooper doesn’t approve of because she’s too ‘unwell’ to do it for herself. Alice is still shouting something as she walks away.

She marches forward with so much intensity that her knees almost hurt. Shoving the house door closed, Betty locks it again, her heart hammering in her chest as she slides in a deadbolt and closes the curtains. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, Betty weeps, barely able to breathe under the muffled emotion.

She’s not crazy.

She’s stronger than this.

Jughead’s good.

_She’s_ good.

The urge to dig her nails in is almost a physical presence in the room, sucking out all the air until there’s only a burning itch she can’t scratch. Spreading her palms on the kitchen counter, she breathes sharply, unevenly, trying to steady herself out.

It’s horrible - like a grater to her skin and her psyche, a chain on her choices, on her mind.

Her mother doesn’t know anything about wellness - about _Betty_, about_ Jughead._

Hot tears slide down her cheeks, so heavy on her that she has to close her eyes and let them keep falling amidst her quiet little sobs.

“Betty?”

Jughead stands still in the kitchen entryway. Alert. Concerned.

Trembling, she swallows. “Jug.”

She can’t move her palms. Her throat aches to cry for him, for going after the dream job, the dream relationship, the _dream _her mother will never let her have. It’s suffocating. She can’t _breathe_, can’t let Jughead choke on this the way she is when he makes her feel like she can be free.

“What do you need?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know.

Swiftly moving forward, Jughead wraps her into a side-hug, suspicious of the way she doesn’t want to let go of the counter. Helpless to articulate right now, she just looks up at him through watery desperation.

“What happened?” he asks softly, caressing her cheek.

It’s too warm, too sweet and giving. She cries harder, ashamed of the sharp sting she craves to make it go away.

“Betty.”

“My mom...she was waiting outside for me. For us, maybe. She had some kind of background check in her car.”

“What?” His attention snaps to the door but quickly diverts back to her face as he puts his body more firmly between her and the outside, protecting her like a shield.

She just doesn’t want him to get hurt, doesn’t want to get pushed away.

“I’m sorry you’re getting dragged into this. I swear, I’ll do everything I can to be a good assistant to you. She’s just crazy. Maybe _I’m _crazy.” Tears fall with jagged gasps shaking them down her cheeks.

“You’re not crazy,” he insists, stroking her face and diverting the stream. “You may have your darkness, just like me, but you’re not crazy.”

The prickly dark spots under her skin seem to morph into need as he keeps touching her. It’s still so _soft_. It’s good, pure.

“She wanted to get control again because I’m _unwell_.” She lifts her shaking hands an inch off the counter, turning them over to the faded red crescent marks itching to be reopened at the seams. Brow knit in concern, Jughead studies her face like he’s waiting for her to go on. “It’s just–it’s been a lifetime of this, Jughead. No matter what I do, I feel like she’s waiting for me to fall apart just so she can try and make me this perfect _thing _I _should _be.” He strokes her skin, soothing her amidst her sniffles. “It’s not me. She’ll never understand me. She can’t make sense of what I am, of _who _I am,” Betty looks into his eyes, willing him to understand by leaning into his gentle touch at her cheek, “of what I _want _and where I want to be.”

So patient, so compassionate, his whole body tenses towards her. “What do you want, Betty?”

“_This,_” she pleads, her own hand closing over his at her cheek. “But harder. I need a sting right now. I love the softness, too, but…I’m trying so hard to be good...”

His hand falls from her face and he takes a step back. “Get in the living room,” he commands. “Put your hands on my desk.”

“Wh...what?”

“You heard me.” His lips form a thin line, brow furrowed in what _almost _looks like anger. It must be passion. She must stare in confusion for too long, because he spreads his stance, quirking an eyebrow as he clasps his hands behind his back. “Or will I have to punish you?”

Throat running dry, she nods_. _This is what she wants. Needs. “Yes, Sir.”

“So be it. Get in the living room and spread your palms on my desk, elbows touching down. I want your ass in the air, Elizabeth.”

He’s never called her _Elizabeth _before. Adrenaline thrumming, she nods, cheeks still itchy and wet with salty tears as she makes her way to the desk, Jughead steadily pacing behind.

“You track in the dirt from your shoes on my floors?” He tsks, roughly repositioning her hips where he wants them as she bends over, her ass rubbing against him for relief.

“Please,” she begs tearfully. “Please, Juggie.”

She wants to be full of him. To make him happy.

“Please, what?”

“Touch me, Sir.”

The gentle graze of his fingertips slides up the inside of her thigh, tickling and torturing her. “Like this?” His voice is so low, so sensual, that she already wants to clench around him.

“Harder.”

“Like this.” His palm hits her ass with a satisfying smack. Her thighs clench together in pleasure and she moans a little, rocking back to seek his soothing hand. “You want to be rubbed after or let it burn?”

“B–both.”

Humming in acknowledgment, Jughead rubs her sore spot before smacking the other side, letting the sting set in, her tears receding.

“Ah!” As successive slaps come, her arms start to give out, lowering her chest in the hopes she can rub her nipples against the desk.

He grabs her by the hair. “Did I say to go down?”

“N-no.”

“For that, I’m gonna need you to lift your skirt and pull down those panties you’ve been flashing me with for weeks.” Stunned, she starts panting, mouth hanging open as her whole body starts tingling.

Is this it? Is he going to plunge into her like she’s needed and _wanted _him to for weeks?

His tone loses its confidence, grip loosening in her hair. “Color?”

“Green.”

Jughead’s hand steadily puts pressure in a line down her back as she scrunches her skirt up high on her waist and wiggles her underwear off in what she hopes is an alluring show. The open-air combined with the harsh sting makes her even more desperate to have him touching her. This is such a different marking than the ropes, an urgently welcome one.

“Juggie,” she pleads.

“Give me your panties.”

His fingers caress hers even in the quickness of the handoff. She seriously hopes he’s holding onto them for later.

Shifting her weight, Betty puts her arms where they need to be and spreads her legs.

“Good girl,” he says softly, stroking the curve of her ass. “This is mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You trust me to treat you right.”

“_Yes, Sir_.” Impatient, she wiggles her hips.

“I’m going to strike you six more times. Hold on, Betty.”

The upward trajectory almost has her skidding across the desk. Scrambling, she hangs onto the edge of his laptop. Jughead smacks her repeatedly, caressing after a burst that’s left her skin burning in its wake.

“Yes! Ah! Yes!” She pumps her hips into him, back into position, meeting his mark every time until he finally stops, his breathing heavy behind her.

“Enough?”

Sweating, trembling, she nods.

“Good girl.” With one more affectionate swat, Jughead lets his hands linger, tickling the underside of her thighs. She spreads her legs further, just shy of _begging _him to be touched. “You need aloe vera. I got some last night.”

“You...when?” Looking over her shoulder, she sees the way his dark _S _shirt clings to him as he rakes his eyes possessively over her backside.

“When you went out. Now stay like that. You can watch me.”

Her body aches for him. She watches anxiously as he grabs the tube and warms it thoroughly with his palms, keeping eye contact with her the whole time. Those firm hands probably left their mark on her flesh. Her pussy clenches at the thought.

A few tense moments later and he’s kneading the cool relief against her burning skin.

“Oh, Jughead.” A few straggling tears leak out in relief. She’s positively throbbing for him. The heat between her legs needs something. Anything. “Please.”

“_Shh_, Betty. I’ve got you.”

It’s soothing to be tended to like this - to have his hands repeatedly stroke into her sensitive flesh until she’s practically humming along with him. He seems so relaxed. Practiced. Totally submerged in his element like she’s naturally drawn into _him_. This is better than the stasis at the bottom of the pool, her legs crossed, lungs not quite burning. This is heaven.

“Okay. Done.”

He doesn’t pull her skirt down, but he does step away, looking at her expectantly.

She twists a little to look at him better, glancing at his mouth-watering erection, at his smooth, powerful hands and stern face. “Sir?”

“No touching for five minutes. You can wait like that for five minutes, can’t you, Betts?” The quiet urging under his control makes her want to get on her knees.

“Yes, Sir.”

She watches him with rapt attention as he casually makes his way around the desk to slide into the chair across from her. Jughead’s curls fall temptingly along his brow, almost clinging to his skin the way she wants to.

“You’re on my laptop.” He smiles, rubbing the excess lotion on his hands. He told her not to move, so she keeps waiting for him. With a subtle nod, he reaches just beyond her for the notepad and begins writing in terrible freehand. The scratch of his pen against the paper is muted. Silence is eating at her. She shifts again.

“Tell me where you think the Farmies migrated after Ascension.”

It only takes one piercing look from him to help her shift gears, her voice still slightly breathy from the emotions pulled from her. “They probably migrated to Vermont.”

“Vermont?”

“Yes. Evelyn’s family was from there so they’d have someplace to regroup without drawing too much attention.”

“Fifty people just show up to go camping?”

“No. They sent some back to their own families to visit and would regroup at a predetermined time and location, such as a tourist spot or campground, once they’d secured their next chapter.”

He prods his lip with his pen. “What about a Farmer’s Market?”

She grins at him, a low, satisfied feeling still brewing hot in her gut and on the marks of her skin. “Maybe.”

“I want you to look into Farmer’s Markets, Betty. We can go together to a few if we need to. For research,” he adds, gaze shyly going back to his paper.

Her hips wiggle in anticipation. “It’s a date.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, but then strains.

“Juggie?” The check-in doesn’t really get a response. “What’s your color?”

Jughead seems to be looking _past _the desk, lost in a puzzle, a thought, just like when he’s writing a complex scene and about to have a breakthrough. “Yellow,” he admits, and her body stops swaying like a cat about to pounce.

She needs to be still. To listen.

~~~

The girl he’s been jacking off to like a rabid hormonal teenager is bent over his desk with her breasts hanging temptingly amidst her nearly sheer blouse, legs spread, her panties stuffed in his back pocket, and her skirt shoved up around her waist. She wants him to be firm. Loving. Everything.

Being with her is more than everything he’s ever even _thought _he wanted.

He’s still tingling with adrenaline, his nerves vibrant and on edge in the best, most erotic, _erratic _way possible. Everything’s happening so fast. Heart racing, hands throbbing, and erection insistently raising to attention, Jughead tries to compose himself to be a good dom for her, if that’s even what he is. It’s what he _wants _to be.

Her _Sir_.

Someone she can fall into bliss with safely and salaciously_._

Considering their current relationship, he’s not sure what this means for them moving forward.

He wasn’t supposed to fall for her, to indulge in this ecstasy of emotion. Yet here they are.

“Betty, I’m a little nervous about where we’re coming from and where we’re headed. The Shibari was a volunteer exercise. Napping together was...a respite. The path we’re going down...” She watches him like she’s still capturing every thought he’s giving her despite not writing it down on a page. “I just want to make sure you’re not asking for this because you were upset or you think you need to behave a certain way to make me happy. I know you’re technically my assistant–on my payroll.” He flushes, ashamed of himself, of how he’s been eager to spend his ‘work’ time. “But I don’t want this to be for money or anything other than it’s what we need. _Want_. This has nothing to do with a job and only to do with each other. For me, anyway. If you don’t feel the same, you can still stay...I just, I want to be clear what this means to me - what we _could_ be.”

Her hand slides off his laptop to cover his, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m not upset, Jug. If anything, I’m _excited_ because I’ve wanted to be more than…” Her green eyes flick shyly to their joined hands before training back on his face. “Well, I’ve wanted to be intimate with you for a while. I know things are a little complicated because of our...situation, but we’ve held off long enough that I feel comfortable balancing all that. I _do _want to make you happy. Everything we’re doing is something I’ve _wanted_ on a _deep_, personal level. It’s relaxing. _Good_. Not something that’s expected or coerced out of me, and I hope it doesn’t feel that way for you. We both know what we like, what we _need_, for the most part, and we can enjoy that together. Can’t we?”

He shifts, tugging at his pants with his free hand to alleviate the throbbing press of his erection against the seam. “I certainly _want _to.”

“Me too.”

Her head tilts entreatingly until he’s forced to reciprocate her smile. “So? What’s your color, Juggie? Because I’m green, however deep you want that to be.”

He takes a deep breath. Her eyes are boring straight into his tangled, molten soul and the only color he’ll probably ever be able to see, to _feel_, to _say _to her from here on out is, “Green.”

Her jaw fits perfectly into his hand. He has to resist testing the circumference of her neck as she flutters her eyes shut with a quiet sigh of relief. _His Betty_. Leaning over the desk, Jughead presses their mouths together in a bruising kiss. She can barely catch up to his pace, still breathing him in, sucking his lips. He’s determined to smash every bit of resistance in his heart away with an indulgent, passionate declaration.

It almost hurts to pull away, his teeth nicking her mouth the slightest bit to shock her enough to gasp, to inhale the sensuality until it’s in her lungs like it’s pumping out his pores. He stands at full height, enjoying the way her dazed happiness fades to wanton distraction as her gaze slips to the evidence of his pleasure. Her hand tentatively draws back to the laptop in anticipation.

Clearing his throat, he studies the elegant lines of her neck, the heavy sway of her breasts. “Your five minutes are up, Betty.” Wiggling in anticipation, she arches her back more for him. “Now I’m going to put you to work.” Lips parted in a small _o_, Betty watches him with awe. “Since you kept me from using my laptop, I’m behind on my notes. I need you to type them.”

Her gaze flickers to the notepad, the typewriter, clearly wondering if she’s meant to do it at this angle.

“Stand up straight, walk around the desk, and sit on my lap like the good girl I know you are.”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes, not pulling down her skirt, but reaching for it out of instinct. She’s _so _good. As she walks over to him, all demure anticipation, he pops open the button of his pants. Her eyes are fixed on his erection like she’s waiting for it to emerge, to blossom right through the fabric for her to suck on and grind against. It makes him want her even more. He makes her wait for his lap, making a show of sinking into the chair like it’s a throne, thankful he went for one with extra back support. As his legs splay open, Betty seems to calculate the best way to mount him.

“One leg. Straddle it.”

Without question, she obeys. As she settles on him, he feels the wetness of her cunt through the denim of his jeans. “Good girl,” he groans, stroking her back, settling a hand possessively on her waist. “Now pull the typewriter in front of you and load it with a fresh page.”

The clicks and slithering of metal and paper sliding into place turns him on just as much as the stretch of her shoulder blades against her translucent blouse. With a few tugs, the shirt is loose. Betty’s thighs clench on either of his leg as she tries to read the notepad. “Take your bra off without removing your blouse.”

Pausing, calculating, Betty slips her elbows into her shirt. He watches with dulled fascination, mouth-watering, as she unhooks her bra and pulls it through.

“Now type, Betty.”

With impressive assuredness, Betty pulls open his drawer and drops her bra into it. Another souvenir, perhaps. She’s amazing. So intuitive, so _good_. Hands on her hips, he starts rubbing her back and forth on his leg. She moans, chest jutting out, her fingers barely finding their place to settle on the typewriter keys. Clenching his muscles, Jughead slathers his leg in her sex, his hands climbing the hot, bare skin under her blouse.

The steady clack of keys trembles off-beat when he skims the underside of her breast. “Keep typing.” He feels her lungs expand, emptying shakily against his devoted, steady hands. Still rocking on him, Betty keeps typing, head high. She’s doing so well. He kisses her shoulder, pulling her blouse off to one side so he can pepper her bare skin with more adoration. He sucks and nips and fiddles with her nipples until she gasps and grinds down on him.

_Yes_, he thinks, _come undone for me_.

Generously groping, he starts rocking his leg up into her, loving the fullness of her breasts, the sharpness of her breathing.

“Read it to me,” he commands.

“Th–the possible paths of–” He pinches and pulls her nipple. “Ah! Farmies...are infinite in nature and–” Elevating his leg, Jughead watches with rapt fascination as she shifts upwards to press herself more fully against him as if she can take his whole leg and slit it alongside her. “C–commonly where scholars lose track of these families.”

“Good. _Good_,” he murmurs, kissing her neck.

She practically purrs, shuddering back against him as his leg goes down. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Keep going.”

Her words are sharp and breathy, but her gaze stays fixed on her work, her body getting looser and more desperate the more he pulls her. She’s so fucking flexible, so pliant and bold. He’s so proud of her. So hard for her.

He wants her and _has _wanted her for so long. Slathering his tongue along her collar, Jughead works his way up to nip at her jaw. Groaning, she turns her head, pupils completely dilated, eyes glazed over with hot desire.

Kissing her is like stroking his dick. It sends a surge of satisfaction straight to his gut, his _heart_. Wetting each other's mouths comes with the desperate consumption of an oasis in the middle of a desert. He never wants it to end. His urge to love her–_make _love to her pours through his veins with each pump of his heart, with each rock of her hips.

Still deep in a kiss, palming her breast, he traces one hand down the smooth skin of her stomach, past her scrunched-up skirt, and down to her inner thigh. Her needy whine snakes down his throat and he laps it up, chasing her want for him. Teasing, one little finger-stroke at a time, he moves his hand closer to the apex of her thighs.

“Jug,” she pants, widening her legs for him, grasping his hand through her blouse. “Please.”

With one lingering kiss that he hopes distracts her as much as it makes _him _buzz, he glides his hand firmly over the curve of her pussy. She writhes, shivering against him. Slipping his fingers into her silk makes him feel like he’s pulling a thread to make her come undone. She jerks as she takes more of him in. It’s like his fingers are electric and she’s unable to handle the shock.

“Keep reading. Keep typing, Betty.”

Her eyes flutter open in muddled comprehension.

“Keep. Going,” he orders. “Or else _this_,” he stops circling her clit, pressing hard against her slit. “Stops.”

Eyes widening, Betty turns to face the typewriter again. Kneading her breast particularly hard, he revels in the way she tries to steady her hands despite the way he’s hooking deep inside of her.

Even her cunt is perfect. He groans along with her recitation, slowly exploring and stretching. First with two fingers, then three.

Betty shoots her hand to the desk to ground herself, panting heavily. “I–I…”

“What? You can’t?” he teases, purposely tickling her neck with his breath. “You want me to stop?”

“_No_,” she whines.

“Then keep typing.”

He’s not even sure she can _see _the keys, let alone read anything, her eyelids falling heavily as he starts sucking at her skin, his tongue forcefully pressing on her pulse point.

Her inner walls deliciously tighten around his fingers until he can barely move them. His own moans vibrate against the taut skin caught under his lips.

“Juggie–”

“_Read_.” He kisses the pink mark, so pretty on her pale skin.

“So the Farmies will come home. Not to a compound, but to a–to a–_ah!_” Fingers circling at her nipple and clit, Betty trembles around him in a violent celebration of passion.

“That’s it,” he urges, kissing her ear, her neck. “Keep going, Betty. Keep going.” His fingers pump erratically in her tight pussy, her hips rocking desperately, grinding so hard on his leg that he’s sure he’ll have aches tomorrow. Just as she starts coming down, he picks up the pace and has her spasming back against him, strangled cries and pleas pouring out of her throat.

“To a person,” she finishes, exhausted and _wrecked_.

He loves her this way. All ways. She blindly reaches back and grasps his thick cock through his boxers. He keeps itching along her clit, already feeling her next orgasm shaking up to the surface.

“Betty, I didn’t say–”

As the rush hits her, she _squeezes _tight. Her pussy. Her hand around his dick.

“Fucking–_Betts_,” he pants, rocking up into her.

This time he stops flicking her, letting _her _grind against him as waves of electricity practically spark off her and into him. His fingers ache as he withdraws them from her soaking sheathe. Trembling, exhausted, Betty watches him bring his hand up so he can see the evidence of her arousal over her shoulder. The sticky web of her desire paints his skin in a messier way than the hemp ropes secured his around her. It’s _beautiful_, though. He dabs his fingertips on his tongue, vaguely aware of the way she mildly pumps him through his boxers, waiting.

It’s a little salty, a little sweet, and he can’t wait for the day he can bury his face in it and lap it up just the way he wants to. There are already maps in his head of all the ways and places he wants to eat her out, to fuck her, finger her, tie her up and fill her.

“Oh, Betty,” he hums, affectionately pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re delectable.”

Lips twitching with a smile, Betty leans forward to his outstretched fingers and opens her mouth.

Her boldness makes him hum in pride. He offers his fingers to her. She sucks and laves with a devastating allure. So easily. So ready to do whatever pleases him. His dick twitches, so she starts pumping him more firmly. Dragging her tongue with finality along his fingers, Betty looks up at him with dark promise.

“Good girl.”

The rumble of his voice seems to shudder through her. She twists her body so her legs are drawn to the inside of his thighs. Resettling, they both consider one another, the hand on her breast slipping down to her waist.

Through hooded eyes, Betty looks at his lips. “May I, Sir?”

“Come here.”

He feels her smile just before they kiss. It melts away as the passion kicks up, his hand bracing her jaw, the taste of her sharp on each other’s tongues.

“Juggie,” she murmurs, shifting off his lap and onto her knees between his.

The sight of her like this _does _something to him. He can see every hickey on her neck, the plump pucker of her nipples through her blouse, long eyelashes dewy with desire over an awed, rapturous, relaxed expression on her face. He wants this painted, photographed, burned onto his skin and sewn into a symphony. Betty Cooper on her knees, waiting so patiently for his love as she strokes between his legs.

Gripping the arms of his chair, Jughead vainly tries to quell the raging heartbeat in his ears.

“Get it out.”

Betty hooks her fingers in his boxers and his jeans. He lifts his hips to help her drag everything down a little easier. As he springs free, he takes a deep gulp of fresh air. His bare ass on his chair is probably something he could’ve planned for a little better but when Betty’s hand wraps around his base none of that even registers anymore.

“Sir?” she entreats, practically sparkling at him.

“You may,” he says as evenly as possible, shifting towards her lips as her pink tongue slips out, a landing strip for his dick.

He’s not even sure if he says anything–if he swears, if he groans, if he says her name. All he registers is warm, velvet tongue on his tip. His fingers hook into her hair as he watches her mouth open wider, slowly taking him in. Too slowly. As she sucks along his length, pleasure tugs on the back of his eyes until he can barely even keep them open.

“Faster.”

Eager to please, Betty obeys, bobbing and pumping at a pace that has him melting in his seat. He’s been edging for so long that he’s tempted to just let go and shoot down her throat. But this is for her almost as much as it’s for him, to show how much she cares for him and his pleasure, and he doesn’t want to rob her of that.

He enjoys watching her work. He rubs her neck, paces her. The ponytail is wild, loose, spindly, and perfect. She’s so focused on sucking him off that he just stares freely at her to memorize every fucking second his body isn’t throbbing too hard for him to see straight. There’s a rhythm to this dance, the tempo picking up as tightness in his gut spreads like the still-damp splotch on his leg.

He moans, letting his head fall back. When he opens his eyes, she’s watching him with an intensity that hooks into his bones.

“B-Betty–”

At her subtle nod, he lets go of all restraint, tugging her hair and pumping into her waiting mouth. His orgasm rips through him with powerful bursts. Betty moans, drawing and swallowing his seed with each wave, some of it spilling just over her lips, gooey and white.

It’s beautiful.

“Good,” he murmurs affectionately, scratching her scalp, petting her hair. She leans into his touch, licking his come from her swollen lips in an absent way that makes him want to fuck and kiss and caress her all over. “You’re going to be the death of me, Betts.” Still, she’s such a good girl, so pleased, so confident, her teeth so straight and nice in her sweet little smile. “Come here. Get up.” She crawls sideways into his lap, tucking her head onto his shoulder as he cradles her against him. It doesn’t matter that they’re both a mess.

He loves her so much.

He loves her so _goddamn much_ he can’t stand it.

Kissing Betty’s forehead, Jughead squeezes her close and tries to breathe in what must be happiness.

They don’t move until his leg has gone beyond pins and needles. Clean-up isn’t too intense on his end: hiking up his pants, which he _should _change, but doesn’t; washing his hands. He offers to help _her_ with whatever...but she says she’s okay for now.

“Next time,” she promises, kissing his cheek, then his lips. The simplicity of the affection makes his chest tighten in longing.

When she comes out of the bathroom, he’s got tea brewing, hoping she’ll like the gesture. She bites her lip over her brilliant smile, tugging at the hem of her skirt. Her nipples are still clearly visible through her blouse, her hair let down after their play. She affectionately runs her fingers along the marks on her neck. There aren’t enough body fluids in him to get hard again so quickly, but his gaze does linger.

“Do you think...could I get some more aloe vera?”

He starts, realizing she’s also still without anything under her skirt. “Yes! Do you want–do you need your underwear back, too?”

“No. You deserve it.”

“For what?” He laughs, feeling a little more _normal _as she walks over to him.

“For being such a good Sir.” Her arms wrap around his torso, squeezing him close as if they’ve been doing this for months. Fitting together. So close, so intimate.

He links his hands around the small of her back and looks down, enjoying the way she has to tilt her head to make eye contact with him. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” She grins, swaying a little in his arms. “Did you?”

“Nothing but fields of green, Betty. So much fucking green.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we made it! Originally this was going to be longer but I realized that this is really the end of the arc and where it needs to be. Betty's found her freedom. Jughead's got his love. I think it's clear she's going to be moving out of Alice's house and Betty and Jughead are gonna be amazing at finishing the book together with lots of orgasms and tenderness along the way. This isn't to say that I won't do some kind of drabble or coda follow-up someday, but I hope you find this ending as satisfying as I did. Color? Green, baby! Nothing but fields of green!
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to brilliant beta @jandjsalmon for helping me find balance within the fic (and life sometimes haha). I'm curious to know all of your impressions and hope you're interested to see Betty and Jughead's working relationship ;) Thank you for reading, for supporting Bughead and me, and I hope you have a happy kink week!


End file.
